


'Til the Morning Comes Around

by Trinary



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Class Issues, Dubious Consent, Dysphoria, Dystopia, M/M, Poetry, Poor Life Choices, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tarn is a huge nerd, The real pairing here is Starscream/Bad Decisions, Torture, War, the DJD being the DJD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-04-03 16:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinary/pseuds/Trinary
Summary: When the Decepticon Justice Division discovers Air Commander Starscream half-wrecked and floating in space, Tarn has no choice but to take him in. He isn’t on the list; they can’t rip him apart as his traitorous frame deserves. That doesn’t stop Tarn from coveting Starscream for his collection. He is, after all, an extremely important artifact in the history of the Decepticon cause.They’ll have to argue about poetry instead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Step one: Wouldn’t it be funny if Tarn found Starscream, but he’s not on the list, so Tarn adds him to the Megatron-related artifact collection? Starscream would hate that.  
> Step two: Starscream would absolutely bluescreen Tarn by talking about Megatron’s dick.  
> Step three: …They’d have some tense philosophical discussions about the course of the revolution, actually.  
> Step four: Oh god, this can’t end well.
> 
> Warnings are for the DJD being the DJD, and Megatron being Megatron. Starscream misgenders Nickel briefly, but not on purpose. Everyone in this story is a terrible person except Nickel, who only has a terrible mouth. Don’t think too hard about the timeline.

Down and out, and out of luck  
We're spinning, but the needle's stuck  
Let's go have some fun before  
They put us in the ground.

— _[Sinners](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJQTd0aoqHY)_ , Barns Courtney

 

“Can’t I fry him just a little?” Kaon asks, wheedlingly. “I promise I’ll only blow a couple fuses.”

“No,” Tarn says.

Tarn wants to say _yes_ , but can’t. Their prisoner… No, their _passenger,_ isn’t on the list. He was, once. He’s betrayed Megatron more times than Tarn can count. Every time he gets off with a warning and a little roughing up. For reasons beyond Tarn—good, strategically sound reasons, surely, for Lord Megatron’s mind is a machine of deadly precision—their illustrious leader has elected to keep the backstabbing wretch alive. Just because Tarn wants to put on his most _persuasive_ voice and pry the details of that out of their passenger doesn’t mean he can. The list is there for a reason. There’s an order to these things. Without order, what are they?

Air Commander Starscream, second in command of the Decepticon armada, lies in stasis on the _Peaceful Tyranny’s_ medical slab. Nickel pokes and prods at the mess of his internals. None of the damage was inflicted by the DJD. They found Starscream floating in the dark outside the wreck of an abandoned station, barely warmer than the surrounding shrapnel. His left leg's shattered, his wing torn nearly off. He looks as if Tesarus had a go at half his abdominal plating. The other half’s caved in. It’s a miracle he survived.

If Tarn believed in miracles. Which he doesn’t.

Tarn doesn’t know what to _do_ with him. _Starscream_ , on his ship, in his space, bleeding fuel on his medbay floor. The only thing to do is deliver him back to Megatron, wherever Megatron is. Until then, the DJD's stuck with him.

Nickel balances Starscream’s fuel pump in her hand, contemplatively. “I don’t know what hit him, but it tore him up like a plasma grenade up the aft port.”

“Can you repair him?” Tarn asks.

“Of course. But if you’re going to rip him up again, it seems like a waste.”

“No one is going to _rip him up_. Even if the Air Commander’s loyalty is… _Questionable_ … Lord Megatron has seen fit to remove him from the list. If Megatron sees some value in him, then I suppose value there must be.”

“Value, huh?” Nickel’s optics slide to Starscream’s shapely and miraculously untouched cockpit. Tarn's scandalized. Nickel shakes the fuel pump at him. “Don’t you look at me like that, Tarn. Even I’ve heard the rumors of why Megatron keeps him around.”

“Starscream is a skilled military tactician!” Tarn says, stiffly. “Without his support at the siege of Kefahuchi—”

“Mm-hm. A tactician with pretty wings and a tight little—”

“ _Nickel_.”

Kaon snickers.

“That is entirely inappropriate,” Tarn says. “Lord Megatron would never succumb to such shallow vanities. Put him back together and we’ll do our duty to our leader by returning his second in command.”

“Returning a knife for his back, more like,” Nickel says, but goes to work welding Starscream’s vacuum-cracked lines. Tarn frowns under his mask, not that anyone sees it.

“I’ll be careful,” Kaon promises, “only a tiny zap when he’s awake to feel it.”

“You do that and I’ll have you scrubbing every floor on this ship clean,” Tarn tells him.

“You _know_ I can’t see the floors, Tarn!”

“Then you’d have to do it over and over again until I was satisfied, wouldn’t you?”

Kaon wilts. “Yes, sir. But—”

“What, Kaon?”

“What if he attacks me? Can I zap him then?”

Starscream is more likely to shoot Kaon right in his empty optical sockets than engage in an up-close physical fight. Tarn sighs. “Intrafactional rules of engagement apply. No unprovoked violence, and no maiming.”

“Yes sir!”

Satisfied, Kaon goes off to play with the pet. Then it’s only Tarn, Nickel, and Starscream’s unmoving form. Starscream really is a wreck. Without the standard issue locator beacon pulsing under his armor, they never would have found him.

What fine armor it is, too.

Tarn’s interest is nothing so crass as Starscream’s cockpit, no matter how shapely it may be. Starscream is a living relic from the earliest moments of the revolution. Right from the beginning, he was there, and it’s printed all over his frame. He might have had refits in the intervening vorns, but his chassis is one hundred percent golden age cold-constructed. It’s obvious in the facial molds. Not too many of them around, these days. Tarn’s fingers itch greedily.

Starscream was there when Megatron rose up from the pits in a blaze of glory. He slaughtered the senate with his own hands. The _senate_ , like they were no more than Dead End gutter trash. It sends a hot pulse through Tarn’s frame. Starscream was glorious, once.

Somewhere along the way, things went wrong. Starscream betrayed Megatron, or he hadn’t. He was on the list, then he wasn’t. The question of whether Megatron and his second in command are interfacing is obviously salacious rumor spread by the Autobot disinformation network, but it’s never been a secret that their relationship is… Tumultuous.

Maybe Starscream can enlighten him on the finer details when he’s in one piece.

Tarn finds himself restless as he leaves the medbay behind. He doesn’t realize where he’s going until he’s returned to his quarters and found himself eying up the collection, thinking how perfect Starscream would look displayed between the statue of Megatron in his mining instar and the first editions. _Starscream_ , living history, lacquered and polished.

For a klik Tarn considers Starscream’s dead frame hung there. He discards the thought. A greyed corpse wouldn’t do at all. Starscream’s _flashy_. Colorless, he’s barely Starscream—though it’d be better if he were restored to his original paint job. How best to display him among the artifacts? Suspended, wings spread, as if weightless or in a dive? One or two spotlights trained on him to make him gleam? Tarn would have to install mounts in the ceiling and on Starscream’s chassis, if he wants the frame to last under the strain.

Surely, too, Starscream is too proud to submit to such treatment without a fight. Tarn might have to disable certain motor relays to make him posable. He imagines adjusting Starscream _just so_ , limbs moving without resistance. Or maybe he _would_ submit if Tarn talked him into it? Starscream’s known for his vanity. If he knew he was appreciated…

Tarn shakes his head, appalled at himself. What is he thinking? Starscream may not technically be in his chain of command, but he’s still Megatron’s second. He’s not on the list, he’s a Decepticon officer in good standing, and Tarn can’t go indulging his whims wherever he likes. One addiction—though he’s loath to admit it exists—is enough. The collection is… A _hobby_ , nothing more. Tarn’s playing the part of the archivist for the day Megatron reigns victorious. Starscream happens to be of historical importance. That’s all.

Tarn eyes the gap between the statue and the first editions one more time, dismisses it, and goes on to more important things.

 

Starscream has a lot of experience waking up in medbays.

This one’s unfamiliar. It doesn’t make much difference. They all have the same bright lights, the same reek of cleaner and spilt fuel. He squints at the ceiling where someone’s missed a few stray drops of energon that have splashed and stuck. It’s a friendly medbay, which Starscream judges by the fact that he’s neither restrained, nor in a cell, nor being actively disassembled as someone asks him questions. It’s a bit of a surprise, to be honest. After the last things he remembers, he hadn’t expected to come online again.

A square green face pops into the corner of Starscream’s field of vision. “You’re awake, are you?”

The medic has the oddest little frame Starscream’s ever seen, all squat and square as his face, with wheeled feet. Lights and dials litter his chest. He’s hardly bigger than a minibot. Starscream sits up, cautiously, but the medic’s competent. He’s been put back together well, if not prettily. It’ll be awhile before he’s not covered in ugly welds. The medic looks at Starscream like he’s waiting for Starscream to say something.

“Where am I?” Starscream asks.

The medic tips his head back and groans. “Thank you. The words I was looking for were _thank you, Nickel, for welding my sorry aft back together._ You’re just like the rest of these glitches. I don’t know why I bother.”

Well, Nickel’s a medic by mouth, if not by frame. Starscream would point out that as second in command of the Decepticon armada he doesn’t have to thank anyone, but annoying the medics is never a good idea. He looks his own frame over. “You’re certainly more attentive than those butchers onboard the _Nemesis._ I’ll give you that.”

“Two words, Screamy. _Thank_. _You_.”

Starscream’s wings rattle in affront. “You _dare—_ ”

Then Tarn walks in and Starscream’s too busy trying not to die of a spark attack to remember what he was doing. _This ship_. This is Tarn’s ship, the Decepticon Justice Division’s ship: the _Peaceful Tyranny_. No wonder the medic’s not afraid of him. The DJD must’ve wanted Starscream in top form before they started in on messily eviscerating him. His combat protocols roar to life and light Tarn up red in his targeting HUD. If Starscream’s dying here and now, he’s taking them all with him.

“Bothering my medic, are you, Air Commander Starscream?” Tarn asks.

_What?_

“What?” Starscream asks, blankly.

“Of all people, you should know better than to be less than grateful to the dedicated medics who keep our forces running,” Tarn says. “You were in quite the state when we found you, Starscream. Why, without Nickel, I find it likely you’d be one more piece of inert space debris. She really does work wonders.”

Starscream’s processor’s stalled out. Possibly he sustained damage in the violence, because nothing makes sense. His null rays ache with suppressed charge. He latches onto the only thing he can and frowns around the unfamiliar pronoun. “She?”

“Yes, we rescued poor Nickel from the Prion colony. They did things differently there—but we couldn’t have hoped for a more dedicated medic.”

Nickel throws her hands in the air. “At least someone appreciates me.”

Tarn chuckles. It sends a cold shiver down Starscream’s backstrut. “In any case, welcome to the _Peaceful Tyranny_. The ship is small but its accommodations adequate, though I fear you’ll be forced to share my quarters for the duration. We’re en route to the _Nemesis,_ but it’ll be some time until we arrive. The _Nemesis_ ’ engines, you see, far outstrip our own.”

“So, you’re _not_ here to murder me?” Is what falls out of Starscream’s mouth.

He wishes he could stuff it back in. Tarn laughs—a low, full laugh—and the worst of it is, Tarn’s voice is beautiful. It’s deep and rich as the energon gels that used to sparkle in Iacon shopfronts, the ones no one makes anymore. That Tarn could use it to kill him doesn’t make it any less so. Starscream understands how a mech could listen to it until they die.

“That rather depends on you, doesn’t it, Starscream?” Tarn asks.

Starscream puts on his best sneer. “I’m as loyal to the Decepticon cause as I ever was.”

“Then we won’t have a problem, will we? Come, now. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

 

Starscream’s too shellshocked to argue as Tarn leads him through the _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s halls. His battle systems are on high alert. It’s a force of will to keep them from coming online. He’s living the nightmare of ninety-nine percent of Decepticon troops. The one percent remaining are a bunch of fanatic loyalists who want to join the DJD themselves. Nobody meets them in the hall, but Starscream swears he spots Helex and Tesarus through a half-open door. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

The first thing Starscream sees in Tarn’s quarters is a life-size statue of Megatron. _Two_ life-size statues of Megatron, in miner and soldier instars. He comes to a dead stop.

“No,” Starscream says.

Tarn looks back. “No? No what?”

“This!” Starscream waves a hand at the whole situation and only then realizes there’s _more_ of it. The greyed frames hung on the wall are of Megatron’s miner clade. There are artifacts. He’s sure each of the pitted weapons meticulously mounted and labelled is one Megatron used in the gladiator pits. How does Tarn get anything done? Does he recharge under the statues’ watchful gaze? He probably looks at them while he touches himself at night, the hideous, obsessive glitch. “What _is_ all this?”

“A hobby.”

“A _hobby?_ ”

“A collection of historically important items. This seems a safe place to store them. One day the war will be over, and someone must keep the chronicle of how it came to be.”

_The war will never be over_ , Starscream thinks, but isn’t stupid enough to say. “And that’s you?”

“Someone has to take it on.”

They really don’t. Starscream stalks up to the nearest statue of Megatron—the soldier—and frowns at it. Not only is it life-size, it’s painstakingly accurate. Every angle, every seam. All that’s missing are the chips and dents that Megatron never cares enough to buff out. This is Megatron the conqueror, rendered ideal.

Starscream’s lip curls. “And statues of him are historically important, are they?”

“Lord Megatron is worth all due respect—”

“Mm. And that’s why you keep them in your quarters. Where you recharge.” Starscream casts a glance sideways. It’s like he thought. The berth is visible from here. “Why, Tarn, I never knew the extent of your… Devotion.”

“Starscream,” Tarn says, warningly.

He probably shouldn’t antagonize Megatron’s head executioner. _Primus_ , this is really happening. A small part of Starscream’s mind spins in screaming circles. “I don’t mean anything by it. He’s always cut a striking figure, even when he was a fresh-faced little miner writing poetry.”

Some of the aggression bleeds out of Tarn’s stance. In its place is a note of uncertainty. “You know his poetry?”

“Yes, all those pretty little lines. _My spark sings in the crushing dark/ for the surface that rises/ untouchable, unknowable…_ ”

“From _Bounded Space_. His first collection.”

“Not his best work. Juvenilia, really, but there’s a certain fire.”

“I’m aware.” That odd note in Tarn’s voice remains. When Starscream turns to look at him, there’s nothing to be made of Tarn’s expression—not behind that scarred Decepticon-insignia mask—but something of it lives in his body language. Tarn doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “Did you… Know him, then? When he was a miner?”

“Me? No. I met him in Kaon. He was a gladiator by that point. He still had his miner’s corolla—he used to flare it after a battle, to show where he came from. I never was clear on what it was _for_. Echolocation underground, or something. He had it removed, eventually. Too delicate.”

Starscream looks at the statue of Megatron in his miner’s instar, corolla furled invisible under his helm. It’s close to the way he looked, then, but too smooth. Too polished. Thanks to his previous job he’d have had better armor than most, but the cold-constructed always got the worst grades of metal. The first time they’d met was under the arena in Kaon. Megatron was having an arm reattached after a bout. He’d still smelled of spilt fuel and coolant, heady in that dim room, and Starscream had…

Well. It’s embarrassing to look back on, now.

Starscream taps the miner statue on the chest, where the spark chamber would be. Between the whiplash of waking up here and Tarn’s truly regrettable choices in décor, he’s in a strange mood. Not settled in his own form—but when is he ever?

It all seems so long ago.

“All the more reason for these things to be preserved,” Tarn says. Starscream startles. If he’s absentminded enough to be talking to himself out loud, he’s farther gone than he thought. “History is a ship with a broken navsystem. If we forget where we’ve come from, we’ll only return there again.”

Starscream wishes he was wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Tarn’s a gracious host, though he doesn’t give up his berth. The one Starscream saw is Tarn’s own, but he has another tucked into an alcove for guests. Unfortunately, it still comes with a view of Tarn’s… _Unique_ taste in decorating. At least Tarn doesn’t have the temerity to make Starscream recharge on the floor. Megatron’s personal execution squad or not, there would've been violence.

The morning brings a clearer head and a more sober appreciation for his situation. Starscream is a guest onboard a ship full of the most feared Decepticons outside the _Nemesis_. They have a reputation for being very, very good at what they do, and enjoying every moment. Starscream knows the rumors are true. He’s seen recordings of the executions, and they’re long, detailed, and exquisitely planned. _Orchestrated_ , even.

Starscream himself is a feared Decepticon, but has no illusions about his skills. He could take any three of the DJD in open combat, perhaps all five accounting for luck, heavy damage, and distance. In the confined space of the _Peaceful Tyranny,_ he could fight maybe two to a standstill before the others were on him. He isn’t made for close-quarters brawling. Starscream may have said a few stupid things while running on autopilot, but now he’s painfully aware of his predicament. If they sniff the slightest trace of disloyalty on him, he’s finished.

Then there’s Tarn, Megatron’s biggest fan. _That’ll_ be trouble. Starscream can tell. All Starscream’s starry-eyed idealism wore off long ago, and watching Tarn moon over their glorious leader—who let their planet die and the war stagnate for _four million years_ —stirs up disgust and faint, vicarious embarrassment.

After Starscream had let slip he’d read Megatron’s poetry, Tarn hadn’t given it a rest until Starscream had begged exhaustion. He’ll admit it’s refreshing, in a way, to have someone to discuss it with—it’s been a long while since he’s had the leisure time for literature. But Tarn’s incapable of admitting any flaw in Megatron’s work. Not even that unpublished early poem in which Megatron had rhymed _all are one_ with _energon_.

_The deliberate banality of the avant garde_ , his aft. Starscream’s no poet and even _he_ knows that’s a load of scrap.

Strictly speaking, Starscream has nothing to fear. Megatron hasn’t put a hit out on him. Not-so-strictly speaking, Decepticons aren’t known for their impulse control. What they _are_ known for is scenting weakness like a nest of scraplets at an open wound. There’s nothing for it but to project confidence, keep his head held high, and his combat subroutines ready to initialize at a moment’s notice.

Starscream can’t hide in Tarn’s rooms forever. His veneer of self-assured arrogance in place, he goes looking for breakfast.

The _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s mess hall is barely worth the name. It’s no larger than Tarn’s quarters. A long table runs along the wall opposite an energon dispenser, the dispenser’s top piled high with multicolored jarred additives. Each has a little spoon inside. Some jars are marked with letters: _H_ , _K,_ or _Te_. Starscream guesses that’s _Tesarus_ , to distinguish from _Tarn_. The only one marked _N_ —ammonium chloride, _blech_ —comes with a smiley face and the addendum, _if you touch this, I will kill you_.

There are pictures tacked up behind the dispenser. Kaon and Helex, on a beach somewhere. Vos, balanced on Tesarus’ shoulder. The room’s third wall bears a viewport open to space above a cluster of seats crammed around another low table. Someone has half-built a model of a mark-six destroyer upon it. It’s distressingly cozy.

Starscream fills a cube and helps himself to the unmarked jars: liquid mercury and flaked white lead. Such a bounty is rare even onboard the _Nemesis_. That’s down to its crew of ungrateful ingrates stealing everything that’s not locked up, but still. Anything nice, Starscream has to hoard for himself.

A presence lurks behind him.

“Making yourself at home?” Kaon asks.

Starscream looks down his nose at Kaon. Which is pointless, because Kaon’s blind. He does it anyway. “As at home as one can be, given the circumstances.”

“Don’t get comfortable. The only reason you’re still alive is you squirmed your way out of your own execution.” Kaon scowls. “You should be dead already.”

_It’s going to be like that, is it?_

Starscream swirls his cube. Lead flakes glitter through the fuel like slow ice crystals. He takes a sip. It’s the highest quality he’s had in vorns. “Tarn doesn’t seem to think so. Nor does Megatron.”

“Once a traitor, always a traitor.”

“And yet, here I am. Though I’ll admit I _am_ curious what you had planned for me. Something exotic, I imagine. So much of the mundane has already been done.”

“If you think you’ve run out of new ways to be hurt…”

Starscream waves the sentiment away in disgust. “Please. I’m not that stupid.”

Kaon growls. Electricity ladders up his Tesla coils. “I don’t know how you bought your way out, but I can guess. If you start in with your tricks on Tarn, I _swear_ , list or not—”

“Are you referring to those scurrilous rumors of Megatron spiking me in every storeroom and office of the _Nemesis_? I hate to disappoint you, Kaon, but they’re inaccurate. He took me in the command chair, too. And just about everywhere else. After Megatron, Tarn wouldn't be a challenge, physically or otherwise.”

Kaon’s mouth hangs open. He looks so _offended_. It’s delightful. Starscream inclines his head and gets out of the way of the dispenser.

He claims a spot by the big viewport under the stars. The rest of the DJD filters in, gradually. There’s something absurd in watching enormous Helex and tiny Vos jockeying for space. Helex moves sluggishly and still seems half in recharge. Vos darts around his feet, impatient. When Nickel comes in and Helex is still filling a cube at quarter-speed, she elbows him out of the way, pulls the cube for him, and fills her own. Vos hisses in annoyance.

Vos is a spindly little mech. His facial sculpt is flattened and peculiarly featureless—maybe not so peculiarly, given what he can do with it. His altmode looks immobile, or nearly so. Starscream thinks he’s some kind of rifle. Of the indignities in Starscream’s life, at least that’s not one: he needs no one to aim and fire him.

The longer Starscream looks the more he swears he’s seen Vos somewhere before. Everything about him is _familiar_. He can’t for the life of him think why. He’s not in the habit of consorting with sentient guns.

When Vos gets his cube, he settles nearby. Starscream leans over. “Have we met?”

Vos says something in a language that sounds like a cross between flightframe cant—the language that, ironically, came to be known as Vosian—and a malfunctioning scrap shredder.

Starscream squints. In Vosian, he tries, “I didn’t catch that.”

Helex’s face screws up in disbelief. “You speak the primal vernacular?”

“What? No. Is that what that was?” Starscream switches back to Vosian. “Are you getting any of this?”

“Little bit,” Vos says, in Vosian. “Know some words. Easier than Neocybex. Yes, we met. Megatron fire me.” He mimes holding a long gun and laughs. At least, Starscream hopes it’s laughter. “Boom!”

_Now_ he remembers. Starscream’s seen Vos in his sleek altmode, cradled in Megatron’s arms. He hadn’t thought the gun was a person, but of course Megatron uses nothing but the best—Vos probably volunteered for the experience. For anyone else, firing Vos takes a tripod. Megatron’s big enough to dispense with such things. If Vos is anything like Tarn, he cherishes the memory.

Scratch that. If Megatron had his hand on any piece of Tarn’s anatomy, Tarn would overload instantly. The revelation spoils the conversation.

“Which part of you is the trigger?” Starscream asks, sourly.

Vos laughs harder.

 

The downside of the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , aside from _everything_ , is that it’s such a small ship there’s no place to hide. After a few cycles in the company of people who’d gladly peel him apart, Starscream’s smile’s grown brittle and his patience frayed. The only retreat is Tarn’s quarters, and there’s only so long Starscream can stand two statues of Megatron looking down on him.

Starscream’s not sure why he’d said what he’d said to Kaon. He’d meant to be civil, in the interest of not getting his plating bashed in. Unfortunately, Starscream is a petty creature. He can’t deny the look on Kaon’s face was worth it. He’s never been good at keeping his big mouth shut, but he’s lived this long. He must be doing something right.

Part of him wonders if it’s a test. The goad and the rust stick, Kaon and Tarn, pushing to see whether he’ll do anything seditious. Starscream would like to say they’re not that clever, but it’s a lie. They’re damnably, _viciously_ clever, especially at digging out disloyalty. Tarn once kept a double agent alive for a decacycle until he cracked.

There’s a turbofox in the hall.

Starscream stops, stares, and wonders if he’s lost his mind. The turbofox looks at him. Starscream resets his optics. It’s still there, silver, scruffy, and drooling on the floor. The low rumble of an idling engine issues from between its jaws. Around its neck is a heavy collar. From that collar drags a length of broken chain. Starscream’s first impulse is to shoot it—but he can’t. It obviously belongs here, though for what reason, Starscream doesn’t want to guess. His second, suicidal impulse is to run. He can't do that, either. It'd have its teeth in him in a millisecond. He knows how fast turbofoxes are.

“Hello there,” Starscream says, uneasily.

It growls. Its engine pitches louder.

He’s not dealing with this. Starscream edges backwards, no sudden moves. Tarn’s quarters aren’t far. If he can only get a solid bulkhead between them…

“ _Star_ scream,” Kaon says, too close behind him, all malicious glee, “I see you’ve met the pet.”

“You _keep_ that thing?” Of _course_ the DJD has a pet turbofox, because nothing makes sense and the universe hates him. “They’re barely sapient. All they do is run and bite.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”

“Of course I’m not afraid!”

“Are you sure? He’s a big softie. You have _so_ much in common. I’ll introduce you.” Kaon flings his arms wide. He looks far too pleased with himself. “Come here, pet!”

“I do not want to be _introduced_ to that thing!”

The pet bounds joyously into Kaon’s arms. Starscream flattens himself to the wall. The thing is all sharp edges and drool. A clawed leg kicks in the air. “Who’s my good boy? Who’s my good little sparkeater? It’s you! Did you break out of your pen? Did you smell stinky old Starscream and come to bite his face? You’re so smart.”

Starscream’s disgust skyrockets.

“Scratch him behind the ears,” Kaon says.

Starscream is absolutely not doing that. The pet turns its dumb-animal optics on him, tongue lolling, and even he sees the edge of aggression lurking there. It might tolerate Kaon’s hands all over it, but Starscream isn’t stupid enough to put his fingers anywhere near those lightning-quick jaws. Kaon smiles, hard and sharp. He knows it, too. He’s waiting for Starscream to take the bait.

“If you think I’m touching that filthy beast you’re out of your mind,” Starscream says.

“Really? You never seemed to have much trouble with _filthiness_.”

“What is this even about? _Yes_ , I was on the list once. It was a misunderstanding. I was taken off. It’s over. It’s _done_.” Starscream squints. “Are you jealous? Are you _seriously_ jealous that Megatron—”

“Of course not.”

“It _does_ bother you.”

“I’m not jealous. Lord Megatron can do whatever he likes.” Kaon drops the pet. It lands on all four feet, chain rattling. “What _bothers_ me is that some traitorous piece of shareware bought his way back into the command structure by eating valve. Did you pick that up in your old job?”

A bolt of fury brings Starscream’s combat protocols online so fast they ache. His vision swims red. He could take Kaon by the throat and smash him into the bulkhead; he could get off a shot between his and his pet’s optics before either moved. Starscream’s voice is scrupulously pleasant. “Repeat that?”

“I know what they said about mechs like you, before the war. Only good for three things—”

Starscream backhands him.

Kaon staggers. The pet barks. Kaon grabs Starscream’s wrist, grins triumph, and electricity rips through Starscream’s frame in a punishing arc. His face is pure satisfaction.

Starscream shrieks. All his joints lock. Horrible pressure spikes behind his optics. His combat system screams at him and he authorizes the emergency overrides. They snap into place, bypassing fried servos; he’ll pay for that, later. Starscream’s hydraulics howl as he punches Kaon as hard as he can.

Kaon crashes into the opposite bulkhead, choking on energon. Starscream’s frame sizzles with excess charge. He smells boiling coolant. The pet dances around Kaon’s feet as Starscream’s guns wail online. His targeting system's scrambled, but it doesn’t matter. Not at this range.

 

Tarn’s been having a perfectly peaceful shift. His notes are up to date. His reports are filed. His meetings—a quick performance review with Tesarus and Vos—go as smoothly as ever. Running an execution squad generates a surprising level of paperwork. He might have a little extra spare time today; his discussion with Starscream the previous evening had been invigorating.

Maybe he’s misjudged the other mech. Tarn knows too well how rumors travel and mutate within an army. How much of a traitor can Starscream be, when he can quote everything Megatron’s ever written, chapter and verse? Even if he does have a distressingly narrow view of what constitutes experimentation within the form. If Tarn can’t add Starscream to the collection, an engaging conversation partner is a worthwhile second best. No one else on this ship appreciates poetry.

Then Tarn hears screaming, barking, and crashing. He rounds the corner and finds Kaon, Starscream and the pet in the moment before they murder one another.

“What is the _meaning_ of this?” Tarn thunders. It’s not a killing voice, but he puts an edge into it. The other three stagger. The pet cowers behind Kaon’s legs. Tarn’s peaceful shift is ruined. “Kaon, what did I tell you?”

Kaon recovers first. “He punched me!”

“Kaon tried to electrocute me,” Starscream rasps.

Starscream doesn’t lower his weapons. He looks awful. His paint job hangs in blistered sheets, dead nanites scorched to carbon. One optic flickers. The tips of his guns quiver with the effort of holding them straight. Starscream must have used his system overrides. It’s catching up with him. Another few kliks and he won’t be able to lift his arms.

“He hit me,” Kaon complains, “you _said_ I could zap him if he hit me, Tarn!”

“I did say that,” Tarn says, slowly.

Tarn knows what’s happening here. He should’ve seen it coming. His crew is dedicated to the cause, even when it’s unwise. He has to curb their urges to go above and beyond. Starscream may be questionable, but he’s not fool enough to start a fight on a ship full of people eager to carve a piece off him.

Not unless he’d been pushed.

“Kaon,” Tarn asks, “have you been bothering our guest?”

“…No?”

Tarn’s voice drops to the low purr he uses on his victims, before he does anything at all. “Do you think I’m a fool, Kaon?”

“No, sir!”

“Then don’t lie to my face. Air Commander Starscream, what has he been saying to you?”

“I won’t bother to repeat it,” Starscream grinds out.

“I see. Kaon, If I can’t see my reflection in every deck of this ship by the end of the next shift, you’re scrubbing the re-entry burns off the outer hull, too.”

Kaon’s mouth falls open with the injustice of it. “But he’s a traitor!”

“That’s not your decision to make! Did I miss something? Do you, Kaon, now lead the Decepticons? Well? _Get to it_. And put the pet back in its pen before it bites someone.” Kaon looks stunned. Tarn sees his objections forming. “ _Now_ , Kaon.”

Kaon mutters his obedience, collects the pet, and slinks off. Tarn frowns. He’d expected trouble, but not from this quarter or to this extent. He’ll have to be on his guard.

When Kaon disappears, Starscream lets his guns fall. His frame trembles with blown relays. His paint’s ruined. “While I’m glad you’re keeping up disciplinary standards, I was hoping you’d just shoot him.”

“Kaon’s a good soldier. He isn’t usually so… Enthusiastic.”

“ _Enthusiastic_.” Starscream grunts. “That’s a word for it.”

Starscream turns to leave. His knees give out.

Tarn catches Starscream before he hits the ground. The seeker weighs more than Tarn expects, but still seems small in his arms. Up close, Tarn feels him shaking, fans straining, engine rattling as Starscream’s frame struggles to come to grips with the damage. Starscream tries to push himself upright. He leaves burnt carbon smears on Tarn’s plating.

“I’m fine,” Starscream says, “let me go.”

“I’m taking you to Nickel.”

“I don’t need a medic! I said I’m _fine_ —hey!” Starscream hisses and wriggles like the pet as Tarn sweeps him into his arms. He isn’t fine. He kicks Tarn in the side, which ordinarily would leave a dent, but right now is barely a love tap. It’s sweet, in its way. Starscream is as proud and independent as a Decepticon should be. All the way to the medbay, he spits invective. “Let me go, you overgrown sycophant. I can walk. This is _humiliating._ ”

Nickel looks up from where she’d been polishing surgical equipment. “Tarn, if you’ve broken him already…”

She takes in the scene. Her expression’s as unimpressed as Tarn has ever seen it.

“Oh,” Nickel says, “I see.”

Tarn sets Starscream on the medical berth. Starscream scowls at them both, but lets Nickel plug into the diagnostic port in his wrist and run her systems checks. Bits of him keep flaking off. Tarn looks at his own front and finds it streaked with the same mess. It’s worked into his treads. He grimaces.

Nickel disconnects herself. “Congratulations, Screamy. You’re fine. Operating is more trouble than it’s worth, so don’t bug Kaon and it won’t happen again. A few good recharges and your self-repair will take care of the rest. You’ll be ugly for a while, but what else is new?”

“I _told_ you I was fine,” Starscream tells Tarn, acidly. He sits up. “I’m not walking around like this.”

Nickel waves a hand. “Of course not. You’re a mess. If you let a crust of dead nanites sit around long enough, you risk infection. Wash off and buff yourself out.”

“I’m not walking around _bare_ , either!”

“Does this look like a detailing shop?”

As Nickel and Starscream argue, Tarn gets an idea. A wonderful, awful idea. Can he propose it? No, he… He can’t possibly. It’s ridiculously self-indulgent, and inappropriate besides. Starscream will see right through it. Tarn tries to dismiss the notion, but it lingers, nagging, like the constant low-grade itch to transform. It won’t leave him alone. The longer he ignores it the more enticing it is, and Tarn can picture it, perfect, like an illustrated history of the revolution.

“I deeply regret the negative impression we’ve made on you, Air Commander Starscream,” Tarn says, before he can stop himself, “allow me to make it up to you. I’m a deft hand with the airbrush myself.”

Nickel gives Tarn a look that Tarn refuses to respond to.

Starscream looks dubious. “You want to paint me?”

“It’s the least I can do. It would be undignified for an officer of your station to be forced to show himself in such a state. I can’t promise the widest palette, but…”

“You’re not painting me black and purple.”

“Of course not! Our stocks are limited, but I’m sure I can dig up something to your tastes. It would be my honor to work on a frame as fine as your own. I’ve always admired the sleek aerodynamics of flightframes.”

Starscream looks Tarn up and down. His optics narrow. “Really.”

“Oh, yes. There’s an elegance to the form rarely found among those of us bound to gravity.”

“…Well. If you’re _so_ eager, I’ll allow it.”

Nickel’s optics roll skyward. Behind his mask, Tarn grins.

He’s going to paint Starscream factory original.


	3. Chapter 3

Tarn is solicitous in his bodywork. He’s big, but his hands are graceful. After Starscream takes to the washracks to rinse off the worst of the dead nanites, Tarn even works the buffer on those inconvenient seams and angles that are hard to reach on his own. Starscream is a ruin. He looks at his reflection glumly, peeled back to bare metal and a few stray patches of basecoat. He’s halfway to matching the greyed frames on Tarn’s wall.

It’s a small comfort that every time he’s seen Kaon since their little incident, Kaon’s been on hands and knees, scowling as he scrubs the decks. Starscream’s been tempted to kick him. It’d almost, _almost_ be worth it.

Starscream picks at a stubborn black flake caught in his wrist joint. “I swear he did this on purpose.”

“It’s likely,” Tarn agrees, “Kaon once burnt off Tesarus’ paint as a prank. Nickel read him the riot act before I got to him. He never did it again.”

“Until now,” Starscream says, bitterly. The flake comes free. He drops it on the floor. “How do you want to do this?”

“Up on the table.” Tarn pats the long table in his quarters, on which he’s set the paints and tools he’ll need. “Basecoat first. I’ll start with your thrusters and work upward. They should dry by the time I’ll need you to stand. Then we can set the overlay and sealant.”

Starscream groans. “This will take forever, won’t it?”

“Am I preempting some pressing engagement?”

Did Tarn initialize with a thesaurus crammed into his intake, or did that come later? Starscream swings himself onto the table and sits. His legs dangle over the edge. “You know as well as I do, I have nothing better to occupy my time. Hurry up and paint me, Tarn.”

“Megatron once wrote a poem about a situation like this.”

“If you say _paint me like one of your Iaconian mechs_ , I’m shooting you in the face.”

Tarn manages to look hurt despite no distinguishable facial expression. Starscream scowls at him. He knows that poem, and it’s filthy. Also he doesn’t want Tarn dwelling on the line _smudged paint on open thighs,_ or _the imprint of a hand in secret places_. As if Megatron knew anything about maintaining surface detail; in the mines all they’d had was safety stripes and rustproofing.

“At least let me offer you a drink,” Tarn says, and cracks open his liquor cabinet. “What would you like? I’ve accumulated a wide range, in my traveling.”

Tarn’s not kidding. Starscream eyes the treasure trove of jewel-glowing engex covetously. “Is that Altihex triple-filtered?”

“The very same.” Tarn sets the bottle on the table. It gleams purple. “May I?”

“You may.”

So, Starscream finds himself in the strange position of sitting on Tarn’s table as Tarn himself cradles Starscream’s heel in one hand and paints him with the other. Soft strains of music play. He sits in a room to rival a golden-age noble’s, if not for the subject of its decorations. He sips engex of a quality he’d have murdered for as a newbuild. Each stripe of white basecoat goes on sleek and shiny, and doesn’t drip at all. If he could go back and tell his past self about this, he’d never have believed it.

The music is the frilly, multithreaded orchestral type that’s been out of favor for a long, long while. It’s Eucryphia—not the Empyrean Suite the DJD has become so associated with, but another, more minor work. Starscream remembers the last time he heard it with sudden clarity. Before the war, before even the revolution, when he’d been playing politician. _The flightframe made good_ , that was him. His forged co-workers had looked at him as a mascot, at first, or a trained animal. It was a mistake they didn’t make twice. How delicious it’d been to gather the power he’d bowed, scraped, and clawed for, and slit their throats with it.

“ _For a little while, stay_ ,” Tarn says, “ _forget the shift-clock’s chime/ the flight of time/ in endless, weary hours—_ ”

“Did you trap me here to talk about poetry again?” Starscream asks.

“Do you have another way you’d like to pass the time?”

Tarn’s mask tilts at him. Starscream could swear he catches a flash of red optical glass behind it. He was having a lovely evening drinking and being pampered, actually. “I don’t know. What do you do in your spare time?” Tarn starts to answer, but before he can, Starscream adds, “if it has anything to do with Megatron, don’t say it.”

Tarn slumps a little. He says nothing. That’s just _sad_. Starscream almost pities him.

“There must be _something_.”

“I used to sing.”

Now they’re getting somewhere. Tarn’s fine, deep baritone is low enough to throb in a mech’s air cavities like a second engine. Even in speech he puts a master’s care and skill into every word. Raised in song, it must be a thing to hear. “You don’t still?”

Tarn lets up with the airbrush and gestures at his throat. “No. My voice, I… It’s harder to control, when I’m managing pitch. I couldn’t always kill people by speaking to them. It used to be inanimate things, then…” Tarn’s grip on the airbrush tightens. “I don’t sing anymore.”

So Starscream’s jabbed an open wound. He represses a wince, throws back the rest of his drink, and pours himself another. Maybe this is why Tarn likes music so much. Him and his big mouth. “Tarn—”

“Your thrusters are dry. Stand and I’ll apply the rest.”

Starscream does as Tarn says. Tarn lays down the rest of the basecoat in silence, and where it’s dry, moves on to the pigment. The dead miners’ frames on Tarn’s wall are just shiny enough for Starscream to see a dim reflection of himself, monochrome and gleaming. When he looks closer he notices the words etched into the frames’ inner struts. _Division is another means by which they can control the population_ , he reads, wrapped around a fuel pump. On the surface of a cracked helm is, _I say enough. Reject your work. Reject your altmode. Resist—_

“These are _first editions_ ,” Starscream blurts. He nearly drops the triple-filtered in his shock. These are the corpses smuggled out of Messatine to Megatron’s publisher, engraved with the words the senate had tried to murder him for. “How did you _get_ these?”

Tarn hums, pleased. “I have my ways. I knew a discerning mech such as yourself would appreciate them.”

“I thought they’d been smelted after transcription. I didn’t know they still existed!”

“Some have been lost, unfortunately, but I do what I can.”

“I wonder if Megatron knows these are here,” Starscream says, half to himself.

“Would he want them back?”

Dead frames hung like trophies aren’t Megatron’s style. Starscream doubts it. Poetry aside, Megatron’s never been sentimental.

Tarn fades into the background as Starscream looks at the things, really _looks_. This one, dead by crushing; that one, a hole torn through its chest by an errant drill. Any of them could have been Megatron, cut short before he amounted to anything. Starscream feels the killing weight of history in looking at them. The weight of earth and tunnels, of Messatine, of voracious Cybertron itself.

The weight of time, too. Starscream tries to remember where he was when Megatron was a miner. He isn’t sure. In Vos, as one more moving part in Cybertron’s planetary defense network, or had he already come to Kaon by then? He has to stop himself from reaching out to touch a frame. The chips and scars are so familiar. It’s been hundreds of thousands of vorns since he’s seen plating this cheap. It wouldn’t stand up to a single concussion round. It’s a wonder any of them made it out from underground.

“What do you think?” Tarn asks.

Starscream shakes himself. “What?”

“I’ve finished everything but the sealant. I’d like your opinion.”

How long has Starscream been lost in his own head? “Do you have a mirror?”

“Through there.” Tarn follows close behind him. “I do hope it’s acceptable. I’m no golden age artisan, but—”

Starscream stops hearing Tarn as he sees his reflection. His ventilation system stutters and stalls. It’s not the same frame he had then, but the pattern matches. Big, blocky patches of color. White all over, but for blue forearms and feet. Red hips, a red chest, a red stripe on his wings. The long millennia of war evaporate and Starscream stands wobbling on a precipice, new-made, everything stripped away. He looks young, uncertain, and hideously vulnerable, like some… Some kind of…

Starscream’s voice goes shrill. “What is this?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I don’t _like_ it—what were you thinking?”

Tarn seems as if he might be having second thoughts. “Our stocks were limited. I recreated one of your previous patterns. The color scheme is a classic. You look very fetching.”

“I’ve been repainted a thousand times, and you chose this one? At best it’s outdated. At _worst_ —” Starscream grinds his teeth. “I hate it. Change it. _Now_.”

_Hate_ isn’t the right word. Looking at his reflection feels like falling. Did the pit-spawned glitch do this on purpose? No, of course not. Tarn’s forged. He doesn’t understand the nuance. Starscream’s fists clench. His frame creaks. _Stupid little cold-constructed, risen above his station._ Here he is again: a thing. An object. Barely better than the pet.

“You’re being unreasonable, Starscream.”

Let Tarn think he’s exactly this petty. “I’ll strip this paint myself.”

“You just had it stripped. You’ll damage your frame.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll be asymmetrical, unless you’ve changed your position on purple and black.” Tarn holds up the airbrush stocked with Starscream’s red. There is, indeed, very little left. “We have a small supply of Kaon’s red, but it’s darker. It won’t match.”

Slag him to the pit if he has to look like _Kaon_. Starscream screams internally.

“At least wait until your nanites recover,” Tarn says, soothingly, “I’ll repaint you then.”

This has gone on long enough. Starscream can’t bear to look at himself. He’ll live with it. He did once, he’ll do it again. It’s fine as long as he doesn’t have to see himself, or think about it, or—or anything.

Starscream becomes aware, after a time, that Tarn’s saying something about getting back on the table. He goes. His drink has emptied itself. He pours another. The sealant dries much more slowly than paint. Starscream realizes, too late, that he’s stuck on Tarn’s table for the duration. He works away at the engex with grim determination.

 

This isn’t going as Tarn planned. He’d expected shouting, or an argument he could win—even, in his secret dreams, Starscream’s pleasure at being so well remembered. Instead Starscream’s tense and silent, optics focused on a point somewhere over Tarn’s shoulder. When Starscream’s not paying attention, Tarn sets the triple-filtered under the table. Starscream doesn’t notice.

Tarn has, perhaps, miscalculated. He’s not sure how. The color scheme suits Starscream’s seeker frame, and he’s been careful to avoid any of the sloppiness of factory paint jobs. Starscream is the ideal of his line. He could’ve stepped off the Decepticon recruitment posters they used to stick up around Rodion’s back streets in the dead of night. He might have one of those posters around somewhere, actually. It would look nice next to the statues. Maybe he ought to—

“How did you get here?” Starscream asks.

Tarn pauses. “I don’t understand.”

“ _Primus_. You. Here. Megatron’s head executioner. Your accent has a hint of Tarnian, but you spent more time in Iacon and it stuck. You enjoy the finer things in life and you know your way around them. You _take them for granted_. You were forged a golden scion of the golden age, and it shows.” Starscream makes an expansive gesture. “Tell me, Tarn, why weren’t you first up against the wall?”

Tarn lets Starscream’s invocation of a non-existent god slide. It’s profanity, not a profession of faith. “I lost everything.”

“It must have been a long way to fall.”

“It was.” The worst part, looking back, was what a fool he’d been. Tarn had gone around writing revolutionary slogans on walls, never worrying about being caught. Bad things happened to other people. Then they’d happened to him. “Megatron’s words were… A shining truth, in that time. What about you? You’re Megatron’s second in command, and yet you make life as difficult for him as possible.”

Starscream frowns. “I’m not arguing politics with you.”

“Why not? You’re not going to tell me the Autobots were right, are you?”

“Ugh. Obviously not.”

Tarn spreads his hands invitingly. If Starscream isn’t playing Unicron’s advocate, Tarn doesn’t see the problem. He can handle a debate.

Starscream looks suspicious. “For all I know you’ll rip out my spark chamber the klik I criticize Megatron’s command decisions.”

“From what I’ve heard of life on the _Nemesis_ , you do nothing else.”

Starscream barks ugly laughter. “That’s what a second’s for! Telling him things he doesn’t want to hear. All I get for my trouble are fresh dents.”

A shameful bit of Tarn’s spark is pleased to imagine Megatron knocking sense into Starscream, if even a tenth of the rumors of Starscream’s antics are true. “It’d help if you didn’t challenge him three times a cycle. Lord Megatron seems to enjoy your attempts, though for the life of me I don’t know why.”

“I bet he does.”

“I don’t understand you. You’re an intelligent, articulate, dedicated officer, Starscream, and yet you insist on playing these games.”

Starscream looks at him in disgust. “Don’t you dare question my loyalty to the cause.”

“Lord Megatron _is_ the cause.”

“Of course you don’t get it! You’re— _ugh_. I don’t know why I bother.” Starscream draws himself up straight. He sneers. There’s a wobble in his backstrut. Tarn, belatedly, realizes Starscream’s overcharged. “You want to argue politics, Tarn? Fine. Here’s a hypothetical. Refute it if you can: the Decepticon Justice Division is explicitly functionist.”

Tarn’s so offended that for a moment he can’t speak. “ _What_?”

“ _What_ is not an argument.”

“We hunt traitors.” Tarn’s words come out edged. Starscream shudders. Tarn forces his voice smooth. “Is betrayal a function, now? What does that have to do with anything?”

“You hunt traitors, defectors, and deserters. Anyone who runs.”

“Decepticons who betray the ideals of the badges carved from slivers of their own spark chambers, _yes_.”

Starscream leans back, one hand to his cockpit in mock surprise. The other sloshes engex. Three purple drops land on the table. “Oh, but Tarn, they don’t do that anymore. It takes too long. We pre-war models are thin on the ground, aren’t we? These days it’s MTOs, airdropped frozen onto battlefields before their processors come online. Can a newsparked soldier be called a traitor if, milliseconds old, he looks around and makes the rational choice to say, _actually, frag this?_ ”

Tarn can’t believe he’s having this conversation. “We fight for them, whether they understand it or not. Yes, they’re traitors!”

“Who have they betrayed?”

“Themselves.”

“I see.” Starscream smiles like an unsheathed blade, naked and terrible. “And we poor, stupid cold-constructed should shut up and do what we’re told. We don’t know what’s good for us, and should listen to our betters when they tell us we should fight, and we should die, and fulfil our _function_ as our makers intended. Is that what you’re telling me, Tarn?”

Tarn’s wandered into a trap. Its teeth close around him before he feels its sting. He squirms under Starscream’s gaze. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Starscream is Megatron’s second for a good reason. His tongue’s as clever and vicious as his fighting. Starscream drains the rest of his drink, looks for the bottle, and when he can’t find it sets his empty cube down irritably.

“That isn’t what I meant,” Tarn says.

“Of course it wasn’t. You’ve always been special, Tarn. You’re forged, a point-one percenter, _and_ an outlier. I bet they fast-tracked you into the academy—they rejected my application, of course. Flightframes are too dim for intellectual work. No one ever looked at you and said, _knockoff_.”

Tarn loses his patience. “You’re not the only one who’s suffered. Yes, I went to the academy. Do you know what they did there? They poked and prodded until they decided they didn’t like what I could do, then cut off my head and hands. Megatron restored them. He taught me I didn’t have to bear it. He gave me _purpose_ , that it might never happen to anyone else.”

Tarn touches the hard plane of his mask, with its chips and scars. It’s difficult not to pick at, in the same way the urge to transform is always there. The touch puts pressure on the face beneath and Tarn takes his hand away.

“It still doesn’t feel like my own,” Tarn confesses.

“Oh?” Starscream asks, deadly soft, “how terrible for you. I’ve never had a face that didn’t belong to ten thousand other people. What’s the first thing you remember, Tarn? Your first memory? Was it emerging from the sparkfield soft and new as you looked up at the whirling stars in wonder and came to know yourself? I bet it was. Would you like to know mine?”

This conversation’s taken an uncomfortable turn. “I—”

“My first memory is two of my batch having their sparks torn out. They’d failed their systems checks—they were so confused. The batchers shoved them into the corner like trash to finish dying. The frames can’t be re-used, you see; they have to be smelted, and it cuts into the profits. Before you’d solidified I had a job working to pay off my instantiation. You know what they say about us flightframes—only good for the three _Fs_ : freight, fighting, and ‘facing.” Words spill from Starscream like poison. His fingers dent the edge of Tarn’s table but his voice stays low. “You’ll never understand what Megatron meant to us, in those days. You learned it, later. We were _made_ knowing we were worthless. Replaceable. My whole batch was dead within ten vorns. They crashed, or went to the relinquishment clinics, or starved in the gutter. All of them but me. Have you ever seen a dead mech with your own face?”

Starscream grins, crooked. It doesn’t reach his optics. He fishes under the table for the engex as Tarn stares. Starscream doesn’t bother pouring it, just drinks straight from the bottle.

Starscream leans in close. “The first time I met Megatron, I… It was overwhelming. He was this avatar of destruction, this _presence_. As I spoke to him, I saw the cities built on our backs burning. I fell to my knees. Do you know what I said? _I swear my allegiance undying_. Then I stuttered his name. It was so embarrassing.” Starscream laughs. The bottle swings. “He didn’t mind. When the arena medic finished welding his arm back on, I climbed up and rode Megatron’s spike until I got it right.”

Tarn’s so caught up in _allegiance undying_ that the last part doesn’t register. Then it does. Tarn chokes. “ _E-excuse_ me?”

Starscream’s close enough that Tarn smells engex on his lips. They curl in malicious pleasure. “You heard me. I never took you for a _prude_ , Tarn.”

Oh no. _Oh no_. This is bad. The rumors are true, and worse, Tarn can’t stop picturing it. Up on the table, Starscream’s panel is level with Tarn’s face. Tarn’s internal temperature soars as he imagines Starscream stretched on that thick spike in a filthy arena chopshop, another mech’s energon dried on Megatron’s plating as Starscream writhes, overcome. Tarn’s cooling fans kick on full blast before he can stop them.

“So that’s how it is,” Starscream says, thoughtfully. “ _Well_.”

Tarn tries in vain to shut off his fans. “I… This has become inappropriate. You’ve had too much to drink, and I—”

“Do you get off on other people’s degradation, or is this about Megatron’s spike? Never mind. Stupid question. It’s silver and purple, by the way, and proportional. It wouldn’t even _fit_ in me at first, and his hands are almost as big. I had to finger myself open straddling his lap.”

Tarn might spontaneously combust. He tries to stand. Starscream’s foot lands solidly on Tarn’s panel.

Tarn freezes.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Starscream asks, “I’m sorry, am I _preempting a_ _pressing engagement?”_

The sound that comes out of Tarn’s mouth isn’t actually a word.

“Good,” Starscream says. His sole rubs idle circles. “Now, the first thing you need to know about Megatron is that he’s smaller than he seems. Not like _that,_ Tarn. He’s big, don’t get me wrong, but in physical presence he’s… _Monumental_. As if he could stride across the horizon and lay waste to a planet by his own hand. Megatron wasn’t made for mining. That was something they used him for, for a time. If his spark had chosen its own frame, it would have been a thing of terrible glory.”

Tarn can’t speak. His vocalizer doesn’t work. Pleasure jolts up his backstrut with every word out of Starscream’s mouth, Starscream’s foot moving counterpoint. Tarn’s interface panel pings him that it’d like to retract, _now, please_. He cancels ruthlessly. Is this what it’s like to be talked to death?

“He frags the same way he fights,” Starscream says.

Tarn shudders all over.

He’s doomed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry in advance about Tarn's face.

Tarn’s not sure when he lost control of the conversation, but the reins have slipped his grasp. He’s in his chair, at his table, in his own quarters, and Starscream has shifted gravity enough that it all centers on him. Starscream looks at Tarn from his perch on the table and Tarn can’t help the feeling he’s being loomed over.

It has more than a little to do with Starscream’s foot between Tarn’s legs. Starscream’s pointed sole teases his interface panel, all torturous pressure. A dozen conflicting messages litter Tarn’s HUD. His battle protocols tell him he should shove Starscream away. The rest of his systems are just fine with Starscream’s initiative. The pings from his array grow more urgent, and he cancels the retraction command again.

There’s no rule against fraternization in the Decepticon ranks. Neither of them are in the other’s chain of command. Still, Tarn can’t shake the certainty this shouldn’t be happening—that he’s not allowed. That Starscream belongs to Megatron, and the next time Tarn sees his lord, he'll somehow _know_ this happened. He’s out of his depth with no sign of land. All he can picture are his hands wrapped around Starscream’s waist, his spike in the wet heat of Starscream’s valve, wringing the same sounds out of him Megatron heard. Starscream watches from above, keen for signs of weakness.

Tarn’s weak.

He reaches for Starscream’s hip. Red paint comes off tacky on his fingertip. Starscream slaps his hand away. “Did I say you could touch me?”

Tarn’s fantasy derails. “I thought…”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it, Tarn? _You thought_. You could do with more people telling you _no_.” Starscream spreads his legs wider, putting himself on display. His panel stays shut. Tarn’s attention drops to it anyway. Starscream’s smile isn’t kind. “Now, what was I saying?”

_Megatron_. He’d been talking about Megatron. Tarn’s internal temperature climbs another degree. “You were, ah—”

“Yes, yes. Megatron, how could I have forgotten? You should have seen him in the arena, Tarn. He always understood how to put on a show. I think he was bored with the whole thing by the end; a lot of it was flashy choreography, not much use in real fighting. But that was the art. A little grace makes the violence visceral. He used to pick lucky spectators out of the audience, after bouts—if you’d gone, he might've chosen you.” Starscream’s tone turns conversational. His heel thruster grinds on Tarn’s panel.“Tell me, have you ever had a warm fusion cannon humming between your thighs? It’s an _experience_.”

Tarn's suddenly _very_ aware of the twin cannons mounted on the outsides of his arms. An eager monitor system reports they’re ready to heat up and fire whenever he likes. Tarn will never be able to use them again without picturing Megatron striding off the arena floor, victorious, gore-streaked, weapons smoking, about to press their buzzing heat between a lucky mech’s legs. His panel, fed up with asking permission, retracts by itself. The air on his heated array is a shock. He’s wet. His valve aches. Tarn’s spike tries to pressurize and Starscream traps it with his sole.

“I was right about you,” Starscream says.

Tarn groans. His array sends error messages at the unexpected obstacle. The pressure builds. Just an ache, now. It’ll get worse. “Right about what?”

“Megatron could make you overload by looking at you. It wouldn’t even have to be on purpose.” Starscream leans in. “Just by saying your name. Imagine him saying it, _Tarn_.”

Tarn stifles most of the noise he makes, but Starscream’s smug vindication radiates off him, near-palpable.

“I’d tell you the rest of what happened that first time, but it’s straightforward—my valve, his spike, me walking bowlegged afterwards.” A bead of lubricant gathers at the corner of Starscream’s panel and rolls down. It leaves a gleaming trail. “Let me see… Oh, you’ll like this one. I used to smuggle guns to the revolutionaries.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with— _ah!_ ”

“Patience,” Starscream drawls. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I smuggled guns. We needed a transport bigger than my own delicate cockpit, so we stole a senator’s pleasure-yacht.”

Tarn has vague memories of that in the news cycle, long ago. The ship had been found stripped, trashed, and burned. They’d never caught the perpetrator. Then the war started, and no one had cared. “You stole Decimus’ yacht? That was _you_?”

“It was a lot of fun. Such a pretty ship, and such a waste, but we couldn’t have sold the thing, and the engines were useless. You should’ve seen it, all gilt and filigree, a berth the size of this table, and the _fuel_ —you wouldn’t believe it, Tarn. Or maybe you would. The place was filled with so much high grade and expensive confectionary it could’ve been a stockpile. We stole all that, of course.” Starscream grins. “So—we packed the thing full of guns and delivered them. Then we had this ridiculous ship sitting in a hangar. I came down the gangway wearing Decimus’ cloak of office. Megatron looked at me—he was appalled, it was wonderful—and I said, _taken prisoner by Decepticon scum, I see. I demand you return me to my palace immediately_.”

Starscream’s voice drops. He lets up on Tarn’s spike just the littlest bit. It’s a surge of relief and a torment as it’s pinned again.

“Megatron always caught on quickly,” Starscream says. “He came up the gangway and said, _why, Senator Starscream, what makes you think you’re going anywhere?”_

Tarn shudders. His hips jerk. That makes it worse. His fingers dig furrows in his armrests with the effort it takes not to _move_. Starscream tells the rest of the story in lascivious detail—Megatron throwing Starscream onto the golden berth and pounding into him fast and hard, one big hand on Starscream’s spike, the other crushing his throat, Starscream arching into every thrust.

Tarn’s fans roar. He rocks against Starscream’s foot as much as he’s able. Tarn doesn’t know if he wants Megatron to do that to him or if he wants to do it to Starscream, rough body pinning wings to the berth, hands as big as his own taking Tarn from behind, Megatron’s teeth in his neck cables. It’s muddled together in his head, set to the soundtrack of Starscream’s ruthless voice.

Starscream’s panel clicks open. Lubricant streaks his thighs and pools on the table. Starscream shivers as his spike pressurizes. It’s red and dark grey, just like his valve. He spreads plush lips on two fingers. Biolights pulse on their edges in target rings. Tarn stares.

“See something you like?” Starscream asks.

Tarn rocks forward before thinking. Starscream stops him with a foot to the face. Tarn's spike springs free as Starscream shoves Tarn back into his chair, and relief shoots through Tarn like hot pleasure. He gasps.

“What did I tell you?” Starscream chides, “behave, or you get nothing. Are you going to behave?”

It takes a klik for Tarn to realize Starscream’s waiting for an answer. It’s so hard to think. “…Yes.”

“The only reason you want me is that Megatron got there first. What makes you think you deserve to lay a finger on me?” Starscream tilts his hips to allow Tarn a full view of his array. A finger traces slick circles around his node. “The answer’s simple, Tarn. You don’t. But we don’t always get what we deserve. Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you use your mouth.”

The teasing ought to be infuriating. Instead Tarn’s backstrut goes molten. Starscream’s foot drops back into Tarn’s lap and runs the length of his spike. He flattens his sole to the underside and the rim of his thruster catches Tarn’s node. Tarn’s hips buck. Fluid smears his plating. “Starscream!”

“That’s what gets you off, isn’t it? Imagining him wrecking me. Or wrecking you. You’d love him riding your spike, or on your knees with his hand on the back of your helm. If he told you he'd disband the DJD to keep you tied to his berth, you’d be right there handing him the chain.”

Starscream’s voice is laced with static. He squeezes the base of his spike. If not for his mask Tarn could touch it; he wants to take it in his mouth and hear Starscream come apart.

He must have said some of that out loud, because Starscream laughs.

“Too bad you weren’t around in those days,” Starscream says, “if I’d known you were this desperate, I’d have made you watch him ‘face me and eat his mess out of my valve, after.”

It’s the worst, most obscene, hottest thing Tarn’s ever heard. Tarn overloads so hard he hits stasis. When his optics flicker back on, silvery fluid streaks his belly and Starscream’s lower leg. Starscream’s words echo in his head: lurid, awful, perfect. His HUD struggles up through a soft reset. Tarn slumps, dazed. Starscream looks so smug he might die of it.

The air’s cold on Tarn’s array. He’s a sticky, overheated mess. He’s dented his chair.

Humiliation creeps in almost immediately. Starscream just talked him into overloading to the idea of… Of… He can’t even _think_ it without heat singing in the core of him. It’s perverse. It’s _wrong_. He wants to flee his own quarters.

Starscream frowns. “Don’t tell me you’re ashamed.”

Tarn doesn’t know how to articulate the depths to which he’s been undone. “I… I shouldn’t want… _That_.”

Starscream says something in a harsh, ticking language. It sounds derogatory. “If there’s anything more pointless than building shrines to someone who devoted a chapter of his manifesto to toppling statues, it’s pretending you don’t want something. Life won’t hand you your desires on a silver platter, Tarn. You have to claim them, raw and bleeding. So you want Megatron to bend you over a command console and frag you into stasis: so what? You and half the armada.”

What Tarn wants goes far beyond that. “Lord Megatron—”

“Is a person, not an untarnished battlefield idol. The sooner you realize it, the better.”

Starscream hooks a leg over the treads on Tarn’s shoulder and drags him closer. Tarn’s chair screeches over the floor. Tarn finds himself face to face with Starscream’s array. He smells of hot metal and crackling charge. Biolights pulse invitingly. A shiver goes through Tarn’s oversensitized plating.

“How about it, Tarn?” Starscream purrs, “do you have a mouth under that mask or not? Can get your tongue far enough up my valve to taste him?”

 

Starscream was having a good evening, then a bad one, and now a very good one. It’s a treat to find that when he comes at Tarn from the right angle, Tarn crumples like a transport broadsided by a depleted uranium shell. Under an imposing surface Tarn’s nothing but a seething mass of complexes. If he were any other person, Starscream might consider saving what he’s learned for blackmail—but blackmailing Tarn is pointless. Not only would precisely zero people be surprised at the depths of Tarn’s obsession with Megatron, Tarn has nothing Starscream wants.

Not even immunity.

Starscream knows full well that, overloads notwithstanding, if Megatron gave the word Tarn would kill him. The fragger would probably make it worse, for the temerity of having loved Megatron before betraying him. So, Starscream will have his fun in the meantime. Having the big tank at his mercy is intoxicating. Megatron was never so pliable.

The tip of Starscream’s spike brushes Tarn’s mask and leaves a slick trail behind. “Take that thing off. Let’s see if your face matches your voice.”

Tarn _is_ pretty. Starscream’s engine purrs as Tarn pushes the mask up to expose a broad bottom lip, split by scars. He’s just imagining how it’ll feel dragging against his node and the underside of his spike when the mask comes off the rest of the way.

Starscream recoils. His panel’s never snapped shut so fast in his life. He’s halfway across the table with his knees closed before he can think.

“What _is_ that?” Starscream shrieks.

Bare-faced, Tarn looks stricken. “I don’t—”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!”

Tarn grabs for his mask, fumbles it, and tries to cover his face with his hand. It accentuates the hideous gash that runs temple to jaw—which wouldn’t be a problem, if it was a scar, but it isn’t. It’s an open wound. Exposed components glisten with corrosion and the grey sludge of dying nanites. The edges are _crumbling_. One of Tarn’s fingers brushes the wound like he can’t even feel it.

Starscream gags. “Is that a rust infection? Why in the fragging _pit_ do you have an untreated rust infection eating your face, you disgusting, unwashed reprobate? It could spread to your processor! Maybe it _has_ , and that’s why you’re the way you are—don’t you touch me with those hands!”

Tarn goes for his mask again. Starscream boots it off the table and regrets the nanosecond’s contact with his thruster. When this is over, he’s going to the washracks to broil himself.

“Don’t you put that thing back on,” Starscream says, “it’s filthy. What’s wrong with you? Does Nickel know you’re letting your face rot off? She doesn’t, does she? She’s too good a medic to let this happen. I’m bringing you to see her right now.”

“No,” Tarn says.

“Why _not?_ Do you _like_ the sensation of dying slowly?”

“Megatron once wrote—”

“Megatron wasn’t stupid enough to do this to himself! Don’t tell me this is some kind of moronic philosophical stoicism.”

“ _We must understand our wounds,_ ” Tarn quotes, “ _to bear them without submission, we must know their shape_.”

“That’s a metaphor for the damage inflicted on the individual by maladaptive social systems, not a justification for letting parts of yourself _die_ , you idiot!”

Tarn hunches like a chastised newbuild. Starscream crosses his arms.

“Fine. You want to play it that way?” Starscream drags up the relevant passage from memory. “ _It’s easier to turn away from the problem, intimidated by the scale, but rust untended only spreads. The excision may be painful, but for the sake of our own survival—_ ”

“ _A scar is not a mark of shame_ ,” Tarn parries, “ _a scar is the mark of the survivor._ ”

“If that’s a scar, I’m a rotary-blade helicopter. Go to the medbay, or I swear by Soundwave’s frankly terrifying omniscience I’ll drag you there myself.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Tarn mutters.

“Would you?” Starscream asks, flatly.

Starscream gets to the door and throws it open before Tarn reacts. By the time Tarn’s got a hand on his wing trying to drag him back inside, Starscream’s shouting.

“Nickel! There’s a patient waiting for you! Tarn’s managed to— _mmph!”_

Tarn gets his hand over Starscream’s mouth. Starscream bites him right on the joint where it’ll pinch. Tarn lets go in surprise.

“Big mistake,” Starscream says, and raises his voice to ear-splitting decibels. “Nickel!”

Nickel comes around the corner at speed. “Enough, already! Who have you managed to frag off now, Screamy? Tesarus? _Vos?_ I swear, if I have to put you back together one more time, I’ll weld your hands to your…”

Nickel trails off as she gets an eyeful of their undignified position. Tarn lets go of Starscream’s wing. Starscream rattles his plating back into place. Nickel’s expression goes pained as she spies the mess on Tarn’s front. Then she looks up.

“Tarn?” Nickel asks, in the light, sweet, _murderous_ voice that—coming from a medic—means nothing good. “What is that?”

Tarn edges backwards, like that’ll save him from Nickel’s wrath. “Nothing.”

“His face is falling off and he’s been hiding it,” Starscream says.

“It was healing on its own. It’s fine!”

Nickel and Starscream share a look of mutual disbelief. Nickel waves a hand in Tarn’s general direction. “Look at this. This is what I have to deal with. Can you believe it? It’s a wonder none of them has dropped dead.”

“If you’re ever interested in a saner posting, I can put in a good word on the _Nemesis_ ,” Starscream offers, “you must be an unbelievable medic, if you’ve kept this pack of morons functioning this long. He was hiding that festering abomination under his mask.”

“I’m putting every one of those things in the autoclave,” Nickel says, grimly. “Speaking of which—Starscream, did you touch him?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Both of you, medbay. Now.”

There’s no arguing with Nickel. Before she gets to work on Tarn, she slathers Starscream in sterilant. It itches and smells foul, but at least evaporates. Starscream would gladly bathe in it if it kept him from disintegrating. While he waits for it to dry so he can scrub off its sticky residue, Nickel lays out her tools.

Tarn looks on in growing trepidation. If any of the DJD were killed in action, Nickel would make quite the credible executioner herself.


	5. Chapter 5

Starscream comes out of recharge under Tarn’s table with a raging hangover, a dry coolant tank, and urgent messages popping all over the place that he’s overheating. The memory of last night is crystal clear. He got overcharged and ‘faced Tarn, the living nightmare of the Decepticon armada. Starscream almost let the filthy fragger put his infected face on his array. His standards have never been lower.

He considers being disgusted with himself, but he’s not, really. What’s the point? He’s done worse.

When Starscream turns his head, a cube of coolant sits in arm’s reach. Condensation beads on its sides. It has a curly straw. Starscream’s opinion of Tarn ticks up a reluctant notch, and he hooks the cube on two fingers, drinks, and passes out again.

The next time he wakes up, he’s not alone. Tarn’s over on the other side of the room, filling spreadsheets or some other, incomprehensibly boring thing. Starscream climbs upright with the aid of the table. His systems grumble at him. Half his flight computer’s working out the glitches from running hot for so long. In the many vorns without decent energon, never mind high grade, he’s apparently lost his tolerance.

Nickel’s a diligent medic. The chasm in Tarn’s face has been thoroughly cleaned and packed with nanite-rich repair gel. The actuators in Tarn’s cheek twitch as they reestablish contact with their corroded siblings. Tarn looks annoyed, and in pain. Without the mask, he’s weirdly expressive. That can be a dangerous thing, for a Decepticon.

“I can’t believe you left me on the floor,” Starscream complains.

“I tried to set you on a berth,” Tarn says, “you insulted me, then got violent. I have enough experience with warframes coming out of recharge with guns hot to leave well enough alone.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

Tarn points to a dent in his ventral armor. Starscream squints. Alright, maybe not _everything_ is crystal clear. He has a blurry recollection of being manhandled, but he’d been too far gone to know who by. He may also have called Tarn diseased, then punched him. Under the circumstances, Starscream's justified. Punching is natural. Still, never let it be said he’s completely uncivilized.

“My apologies,” Starscream says, “consider it repayment for what you put me through.”

Tarn scowls. “What I put _you_ through? You betrayed me to my medic and I spent three quarters of my recharge cycle having my face debrided. Nickel’s barred me from wearing a mask for orns. It was _extremely unpleasant_.”

“It was for the greater good. You’ve scarred me for life, Tarn. How am I supposed to interface ever again without worrying about having a rust infection sprung on me?”

Tarn grumbles. Starscream isn’t listening. Hangover notwithstanding, he’s in better spirits. The memory of Tarn underfoot helps with that, so long as he ignores what followed.

Starscream leaves Tarn to his paperwork and looks around. Tarn’s done some redecorating while Starscream was out: a couple of the weapons have been rearranged, and Tarn’s chair—dented along the armrests—sits off to one side in its corner of shame. A new poster hangs next to the statue of Megatron’s miner instar. Starscream recognizes it. How could he not? _Rise_ , it says, in big, bold letters, under a reasonable likeness of himself. He’d been quite the recruitment tool for discontented flightframes, once upon a time.

Everything had seemed possible, then.

“I never thought I’d see one of these things again,” Starscream says.

Tarn looks up from what he’s doing. “One of my rarer finds. It was stock forgotten in a basement in Rodion, and, well…”

_And it survived because no one was around to disturb it_ , Starscream thinks. It’s been a long time since anyone lived in Rodion. He almost wants to ask how Tarn gets these things, but he supposes that if Cybertron is a carcass, it has its scavengers.

The poster fills Starscream with bitter nostalgia. For Vos and even Kaon, cities that—if they’d been rotting from within—had at least been cities. The war’s dwindled with age. After the first conflagration of the revolution, the spark had caught in every hidden corner of the empire. Starscream came out the other side of that destroying fire to find everything burned in his wake.

There are so few of them, now.

Starscream’s likeness tilts his face upward, fist raised. He looks defiant. His frame is boxy, cold-constructed, factory standard, but that was the point. The artist emphasized the lines into deliberate solidity. He can imagine himself there, in some Kaonian back room, when they’d still been planning for the world after the revolution.

_The first thing_ , Starscream had said, laughing over cheap high grade, _is a half decent paint job_ —

Wait.

Starscream rounds on Tarn. “You did this on purpose, you glitch-spawned slagpile!”

Alarm flashes on Tarn’s face. “Did what?”

“This!” Starscream gestures to the poster, then himself. All those blocky, inelegant sections of color. “I’m not a toy for your shelf. If you think you can play _golden age disposable_ with me—”

Tarn holds up his hands. “Starscream, calm yourself. It’s nothing like that. I had no designs on your person—I never intended for things between us to go so far, or… At all. If you’ll recall, you were rather the aggressor.” He looks away. “Just because everything didn’t, ah, run smoothly…”

“I’m not talking about your regrettable attempt at interfacing. I am _talking_ , Tarn, about the _paint_.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Tarn’s voice is so smooth that Starscream almost believes him. Except, without his mask, Tarn can’t lie worth a damn.

Starscream’s going to murder him.

Plasma scorches the bulkhead over Tarn’s shoulder. Starscream’s still hellaciously hung over. Tarn upends his desk and barrels into him. They smash into the wall and Tarn gets him by the wrists and wings. Starscream shrieks in rage and knees Tarn as hard as he can. Tarn’s grip loosens. Starscream has a moment of vindictive triumph as he gets free—then he’s on the deck, Tarn’s whole weight on his back, humiliated and ready to scour this ship in fire.

“There’s no need for these histrionics, Starscream,” Tarn scolds. “Comport yourself as befits the second in command of the armada.”

“You used me!” Starscream writhes but can’t get enough leverage to shift him. Tarn weighs as much as Megatron. “I’m not a _thing_ for you to file away in your sad little collection. With all the self-servicing you do to _Towards Peace_ , you could’ve had the common courtesy to learn something!”

“Be reasonable! Yes, I admit it, I painted you in your most infamous livery—it’s iconic! Surely you can see that?”

“I should’ve stomped on your spike and fired my thrusters!”

Starscream can’t see Tarn’s wince, but he senses it. It’s a hollow victory.

 

Starscream storms out of Tarn’s quarters with no idea where he’s going, except _not here_. How could he have been so stupid? As if Tarn would’ve offered to repaint him out of the goodness of his spark. Starscream’s used to ferreting out ulterior motives, but Tarn’s are so backwards, self-serving and nonsensical he never saw them coming. _Tarn_ , and his interest in flightframes. _Ha_. That should’ve been the first red flag. As if Tarn’s ever drooled over anything but heavy machinery.

Starscream almost trips over Nickel and Vos coming around the corner. He scowls at them both.

“What crawled under your plating and died?” Nickel asks.

“None of your business.”

Vos adds something in the primal vernacular. Starscream catches words that sound similar to the Vosian for _interface_ and _fight_. Nickel grimaces.

Starscream’s wings twitch. “If you _must_ know, Tarn is an inconsiderate glitch who should’ve been put to the firing squad vorns ago.”

Nickel sighs. “Ah. A lover’s spat.”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“I don’t care what you do in your spare time, but if you’re planning to kiss and make up, do it fast, before Tarn starts sulking. He holes up and listens to sad music all day. It’s awful.”

“He can sulk his way into an event horizon, for all I care.”

Nickel shakes her head and pushes past him. “Out of the way, Starscream. We’re late for target practice.”

Starscream’s intrigued, despite himself. “You have a range? On a ship this size?”

“No.”

Starscream invites himself along before they can shake him. The moment the airlock cycles, he transforms and kicks free of the ship. He flies circles around the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , corkscrew spirals from the bow to the engines; Nickel and Vos make their slow, magnetized way onto the ship’s flat top.

It’s good to have the freedom of movement again, even if the weightless drift of zero gravity is nothing to the rush of atmosphere over his wings. A knot of claustrophobic anxiety crimped around his spark loosens. Infinite black extends in all directions. This ship might as well be the only point in an empty universe.

Nickel and Vos flash by as Nickel tosses a handful of self-propelled drones into the vacuum. On Starscream’s next pass, they project enemy data. On his third pass, Vos is in altmode. Nickel sights down Vos’ barrel. Starscream’s own targeting module nags at him. He tells it none of the Autobots zipping around above the hull are real, but it doesn’t like that. It likes the damage estimate from one of Vos’ bullets even less. Never mind his trigger, where does Vos store ammunition?

A target shatters. Direct hit.

[You’ve been flying in circles for a cycle,] Nickel comms him, [you’re making me dizzy.]

[Then stop looking at me.]

[In the interest of stopping this powder keg before it starts, what’s got your frame in a twist?]

[I told you. Tarn’s an inconsiderate glitch.]

[You didn’t seem to mind last night.]

[Last night I was so overcharged I passed out on Tarn’s floor. He took advantage of me.]

There’s an uncomfortable pause from below. On his next pass, Nickel’s watching him. Starscream realizes how that sounded.

[I meant the paint,] Starscream adds.

Nickel packs exasperation into a narrow-band burst. [You’re mad he painted you?]

[He’s a self-absorbed, self-righteous, upper-class hypocrite who would’ve been an Autobot if nothing bad had personally happened to him. I thought we were having a conversation, but _no_ , I’m a living prop for his insipid little fetish. He painted me factory standard!]

[It’s only paint, Starscream... Wait. You were made in a factory?]

Of course. The one person on this ship who isn’t some kind of purpose-forged murder machine, and she doesn’t get it, either. _Colonists_. If Tarn had gotten hold of Megatron and worked him up in caution stripes, Tarn would be an oily smear on the wall.

[You’ll forgive me if I don’t appreciate a reminder of the days when Tarn could literally have bought and sold me. I hope those stupid statues fall and crush him.]

Starscream itches with the knowledge of the way he looks, even now. It’s better in altmode, where his telemetry is focused outward and he can barely see himself. It’ll be awhile before he can be repainted without his frame blistering. He’s not letting Tarn help. Starscream will be black and purple if he has to, and who knows? He’s never tried it. Maybe it’ll be an improvement over red, white and blue. Either way, he’s not looking forward to the walk of shame when they catch up to the _Nemesis_.

Vos comms him, in semi-passable Vosian. [Come down.]

[Why?]

[Shoot a gun. Things explode. Feel better.]

He’s being invited to wield a sentient, murder-happy rifle, even if it’s only at practice targets.

Starscream flips over mid-loop, cuts his thrusters, and goes for the deck in the death-drop that got him his name. It’s less impressive without the scream of parting atmosphere. Just before he hits the ship he twists to shed momentum, transforms, and lands on his feet.

[Was any of that necessary?] Nickel asks.

[Style is always necessary.]

[Forget I asked. Give Vos a workout. It’s my turn to fly around being useless.]

Nickel leaves Vos to him. She launches into the void and transforms. Her altmode is a jet just as stubby and round as she is. Starscream spends a disgruntled klik wondering how that even works, and another studying the wheels and assorted kibble on her sides that don’t seem to do anything. Is she a triple-changer?

[Quadruple,] Nickel says. Starscream realizes he left his lines open. [Jet, rover, submarine.]

[ _Quad_ —that’s just excessive!]

[It was normal on Prion. Why are all of you made of guns and right angles?]

[No angle,] Vos says, laughing, [only gun.]

Everyone on this ship is ridiculous.

Starscream sits next to Vos. In zero gravity, he could hold the rifle in his arms. Aiming is another matter. In his altmode, Vos is longer than Starscream is tall. Starscream gets on his belly and squints through Vos’ sights. Targets flutter, tagged with tracking information. He can’t imagine how frustrating it must be to see all this dancing in front of him and not be able to _do_ anything about it.

Vos is right, though. He feels better after making a few imaginary Autobots explode.

 

A ship this size isn’t built for avoiding people. Starscream manages. Most of the DJD ignores him. When he can’t escape Tarn, he retreats outside the ship. Flying beside the _Peaceful Tyranny_ is… Meditative. The streaming dark, the motion that seems like going nowhere, compared to the sea of stars. A deep part of his coding—one he loves and hates in equal measure—is happy to fulfill the purpose it was made for. If it had its way, he’d fly forever.

It’s also boring, and lonely. If that didn’t drive him inside, the cosmic radiation would. He’s not rated for deep space. If he spends too much time lurking in the _Peaceful Tyranny’s_ shadow, he’ll only end up scrambling himself. When he’s forced to come inside, Tarn waits with good engex, delicacies, and attempted conversation. Starscream takes the first two and pays Tarn back in frosty silence.

The worst thing is, Tarn still doesn’t understand what he did wrong. Starscream doesn’t know how he could be clearer, save by beating it into Tarn’s thick helm. Tarn’s so enamored with the revolution he can’t grasp that it’s ancient history; a history Starscream’s spent his whole life climbing out of. Starscream knew from the beginning that nothing on this ship was to be trusted, but some poetry and a few compliments, and he let his guard down. He’s as stupid as he ever was.

“ _There_ you are, Starscream,” Kaon says.

Speaking of which.

Starscream looks back. Next to Helex’s bulk, Kaon's delicate. Starscream’s tried to avoid the mess hall, but he has to eat sometime. He finishes pulling his cube from the dispenser and sips it. No time for additives. Starscream thinks fast, but comes up with nothing. There’s one way out and it’s behind the two of them. He could wreck himself blasting out the viewport in altmode, but that’s extreme. Yelling won’t save him. The ship's well soundproofed. He doesn’t like to contemplate why that is.

“What do you want?” Starscream asks.

Kaon smiles. “Only to catch up with our guest. I’d almost imagine you’ve been avoiding me, Starscream.”

“Oh, yes, why would you _possibly_ think that?” Starscream’s in no mood for games. “Get out of my way, Kaon.”

“We got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over?”

Kaon sticks out his hand. Starscream looks at it, then at Kaon. He drinks the rest of his energon in one go and tosses the cube away. “You honestly think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

Kaon shrugs. “It was worth a shot. Helex, get his arms.”

Starscream puts up a fight, but the klik Kaon’s fingers get into his hip plating, it’s over. A directed pulse paralyzes Starscream’s neural net. His abused bypasses don’t work a second time. Smoke curls from his chassis and he’s on the floor before he can struggle.

His vocalizer clicks. “I’m your superior officer, you useless ingrates!”

“You’re not in our chain of command,” Helex says.

“ _Superior_ ,” Kaon says, and laughs. He probes the gaps in Starscream’s sides. He’s looking for something. Starscream tenses and tries to crush Kaon’s hands between plates, but Kaon jams two fingers deep. He lets off a spark. Starscream gasps and jerks. A relay burns out. _Actuator failure_ throbs on his HUD.

“What do you t-think you’re doing?” Starscream asks, as Kaon repeats the zap on the other side of Starscream’s chest. “You have the nerve to call _me_ the traitor? Tarn ordered you to—”

“No, no. I’ve got it figured out. See, Tarn got weird once you spouted off about history. I have to figure, you make a nice little addition to his collection. You know _all_ about Megatron, traitor or not. I bet you sing for Tarn on command. He wasn’t mad I zapped you—he doesn’t care about _you_ , Starscream. He just didn’t like that I damaged your display value.”

Starscream snarls and surges against Helex, but Helex has two secure holds on his arms and legs. Those stupid little secondary hands are stronger than they look. Kaon isn’t bothered. He taps Starscream’s cockpit glass and worms his fingers back into Starscream’s armor. Starscream tenses for pain. None comes. It’s uncomfortable, at worst, as Kaon roots around in his wiring.

He squirms. “Get your hands off me this instant! What in the pit are you doing?”

“Disabling the manual locks on your chest cavity.”

“ _What?_ ”

Starscream hisses and spits, but Helex’s grip is implacable. Kaon has the audacity to look smug as his coils crackle and fry the connections. He levers Starscream’s chest open on its hinges. Starscream’s as exposed as a soft little newbuild eager for his first sparkmerge. At least Kaon can’t short the chamber itself without killing him. It’s a small comfort.

Kaon runs a finger along an open segment. “The locking pins are in the same place on every one of your make and model. Lazy construction, really. And look at that, your finish is still pristine. Isn’t it?”

“Bright and shiny,” Helex says.

“I’ll kill you both,” Starscream breathes.

“Big words for Tarn’s pretty new wall hanging.”

Suddenly, Starscream gets it. He _gets_ it, and it’s so obvious and so fragging _moronic_ he chokes on laughter. “You _are_ jealous! That’s what this is! I’m sorry to tell you, Kaon, but I’m not competition. I don’t want him. Tarn’ll fondle your coils all you like if you feed him a sob story and some old poetry. Of course, it’d help if you were a mining frame and twice as heavy—”

Kaon crackles ominously. “Shut up, traitor. Tarn might’ve let you off easy, but you were on the list, once. He wants you nice and shiny for the collection—so what? You thought I had to hurt you through your _outsides?_ ”

Helex’s smelter bubbles. Its heat radiates down Starscream’s front. Real alarm rattles through him as his short-term threat assessment rockets off the charts. Helex doesn’t give him an inch. Starscream swallows his fear, grin sharp and brittle. “What, you’ll burn me out from the inside? Leave a painted shell?”

Kaon’s fingers slide down Starscream’s spark chamber. They catch on the bubbled circle on its front and trace it, all the way around.

Kaon smiles. “Helex?”

Helex’s smelter opens. Heat rolls out. Starscream flinches. The smelter’s only open a crack—nothing spills, but molten metal bubbles up close and personal near Starscream’s face. Helex lets go of Starscream’s arms. Before Starscream can fight free, he pulls Starscream close and kneels on him. Helex’s smaller set of hands are as broad as Starscream’s helm. Starscream watches in growing horror as Helex dips one into his own smelter. It comes out red hot.

Helex presses it to the inner wall of Starscream’s chest.

Starscream shrieks and convulses. Error messages flare bright and jumbled across his vision as vulnerable metal sizzles and melts. His fans stutter on, sure he’s burning alive; his extremities go cold with the rush of coolant. When Helex pulls his hand away, he leaves a shallow handprint behind. Kaon puts his fingertips to the warped metal. Starscream grits his teeth.

Electricity tears through him.

Starscream screams so loud he spits static. Something breaks in his throat. Helex puts his hand back in the smelter. Starscream was right: there are new ways in which he can be hurt. There always are. Vindication is bitter. Kaon and Helex repeat the demonstration until Starscream’s voice is a rasping wail, his chest cavity mottled in sooty marks and fingerprints. He’s burning. He’s freezing. Every time Kaon hits him with a jolt, half his neural network skitters offline. He tastes ozone, burnt plastic, and the acrid bite of his own pain. His back arches. Plating groans. It’s been a long while since he screamed in Vosian, but the clicks and chirps hurt less than Neocybex. At least no one knows what he’s saying.

When they let him go, Starscream lies limp on the floor. Half his vision’s gone to static. Conflicting signals shudder in his limbs. He takes three tries to force his chest shut.

Helex nudges him with a foot. “Look at that. Still in mint condition.”

Kaon’s laughter travels down the hall and away. Starscream vents hard and tries to remember how to walk.

 

Starscream’s chronometer spits garbage. He doesn’t know how long it takes to get his legs under himself and stand. He has to wrap his arms around his chest to do it. His torso's sloshing hot as Helex’s smelter, with none of the shielding. If he doesn’t hold it shut, it’ll come flooding out, and he’ll die. He knows it isn’t true. He can’t shake it. It makes sense to his glitching processor.

Starscream gets to the hall before he works out where he’s going. Error messages dance in his HUD. He… May need medical attention. He takes three steps toward the medbay before remembering the only medic is _their_ medic. For a moment Starscream’s somewhere else, a different ship, an alley in Vos. He can’t trust anyone. Whoever’s on duty is just as likely to laugh and do something hideous as help him. He needs to be somewhere safe, before—

Before—

He gets as far as Tarn’s quarters before his legs give out. Tarn isn’t there. Starscream crawls, but that’s fine. No one sees.

Tarn keeps his liquor cabinet by the first editions. Starscream drags himself to it. He goes for the strongest thing he can find. Tarn’s tastes run to quadruple-distilled Iaconian vintages and exotic blends from Polyhex; at the back, Starscream finds a single squat bottle of the bottom-shelf rotgut they made before the war. Bunker fuel: the leftovers of distillation, beloved of miners, warframes, and the cold constructed. No doubt Tarn has it more for its historical significance than its quality. It’s syrup-thick and jet-black. For going from zero to cratered, there’s nothing better. Starscream pries the top off with his teeth and drinks until he can’t feel anything. It tastes like being brand new and already tired.

Starscream offers a toast to the first editions where they hang—greyed frames splayed—to display Megatron’s words etched into their struts. _The more walls you can put up between people, the easier it is to contain them_.

In the dim reflection of their plating, Starscream is perfect.


	6. Chapter 6

Tarn comes back to his quarters to find his liquor cabinet cracked open and Starscream so overcharged he can’t sit up straight.

Starscream squints at Tarn from where he slumps against the side of the cabinet. Black smudges his lips. Tarn plucks the bottle from Starscream’s hand and examines it: Tarnian bunker fuel, low-grade, pre-war, half-gone. When it was made, it would’ve been cheap. Tarn had to pay an obscene sum to get ahold of one bottle, and he wouldn’t have bothered, except it was rumored to be Megatron’s drink of choice in the gladiator pits. It’s probably not even true. Lord Megatron isn’t known to be a fan of altered states.

Starscream makes a protesting noise and grabs for the bottle. He misses. Tarn holds it out of reach.

Tarn’s face throbs. He has a trench full of Nickel’s nanite goop in his cheek, Starscream’s been ignoring him for ages, and now that Starscream’s finally deigned to look at Tarn for more than two kliks at a time, _this_ is what he comes back to? 

“ _What_ are you doing?” Tarn asks.

“I should think that’s obvious,” Starscream says. “You owe me for your—for your crew of pitslag degenerate runoff-licking _rustfraggers_. Not Nickel. Nickel’s a delight. Vos is passable. The rest can get smelted.”

Starscream’s voice is… _Odd_ , soft and rasping, like he can’t raise it too high or it’ll glitch. Never mind sitting up, he’s so overcharged he’s inventing obscenities. Tarn grinds his teeth. His patience is at an all-time low. Whatever this is, he doesn’t want to deal with it. Maybe it wasn’t traitorous behavior that landed Starscream on the list; maybe Megatron just got tired of hitting his second’s personality landmines.

The bunker fuel sloshes stickily in its bottle. The fumes are dizzying. Tarn’s HUD flashes hazmat warnings, and he holds it farther away. Starscream’s black fingerprints are all over the label.

Tarn’s grip tightens. “This was manufactured four million years ago, on Cybertron. They don’t _make_ it anymore.”

“They don’t make anything anymore. Not engex. Not poetry. Not us.” Starscream rolls to his knees. He reaches for the bottle again and almost overbalances. “Give that back, I need it.”

“This was part of the collection,” Tarn growls. His engine throbs in irritation. “It was irreplaceable, _Starscream!_ ”

At the sound of his name, Starscream—flinches.

It’s there and gone so fast Tarn almost misses it. Tarn’s optics narrow. Before he can ask questions, Starscream rocks forward. He fetches up with his cheek warm on Tarn’s thigh, arm wrapped around the back of Tarn’s knee. Starscream’s wingtips flutter. Suddenly, Tarn can think of very little else. 

Starscream meets his gaze, optics half-dimmed. “I thought I was part of the collection?”

A decision Tarn regrets more with every passing moment. “What?”

“Wasn’t that the point of the paint?”

He’s walked into a parallel universe. It’s the only explanation. Everything he’d been about to say escapes him, and he’s left wrong-footed and staring. What game is Starscream playing? It _must_ be a game. Tarn doesn’t have the faintest grasp of the rules.

“You made it clear what you thought about that,” Tarn manages.

“Surely I’m more valuable to you than some old bottle of gutterswill engex—which is as vile as the day it was distilled, by the way. I did you a favor getting rid of it. Didn’t Megatron have some things to say about attachments to material comforts?”

“I’m fairly sure _the engex of the masses_ was metaphorical.”

“Yes, yes. Comfort, crutch, and weld patch to the wounded spark. This vintage is more of a shock-stick to the back of the helm.”

“That doesn’t mean you can go and— _Starscream._ ”

Starscream’s nimble fingers dance up Tarn’s treads. His thumb teases the rollers beneath. Tarn’s plating tingles in its wake. Starscream reclaims the bottle before Tarn realizes what he’s done, downs a mouthful, and wipes his lips on the back of his hand. When Starscream kisses the armor at the top of Tarn’s thigh, it leaves a black imprint.

Starscream’s voice is a throaty, static-edged purr. “ _Much_ more valuable.”

The decking under Tarn’s feet seems suddenly uncertain. Is this what Megatron saw? This seeker kneeling before him, lips parted, optics strange and dark? If so, Tarn understands exactly how they fell into the berth; his processor floods with fantasies featuring white wings and a mind sharp as razor wire. The first editions hang close by. Their big, blunt hands make a dizzying contrast to Starscream’s aerodynamic frame. Even as a miner Megatron’s grip would’ve encircled Starscream’s entire waist. As a gladiator and a warlord, he’s larger still.

Tarn’s cooling fans kick on.

Starscream smiles like the pitspawn he is. He mouths Tarn’s interface panel, tongue hot and wet up the seams. His fingers slot into the gap at Tarn’s hip to toy with the wires there. Tarn groans and leans into it before he can help himself. Starscream’s hideously talented with his hands.

“Where is this coming from?” Tarn asks, “you told me in no uncertain terms you were… How did you put it? _Disgusted to share a universe with an oblivious, over-privileged, sub-literate sadist who’d better serve the Decepticon cause reformatted into a garbage scow?”_

“I say a lot of things,” Starscream says. Muffled against Tarn’s plating, near-inaudible, “no one listens to most of them.”

Starscream licks a thin trail of wetness up the edge of Tarn’s panel. Any resistance Tarn might’ve put up fades in the face of the slick tease of his mouth. Tarn’s engine revs. He forgets about making conversation. This time he doesn’t even try to stop his panel opening. Tarn’s spike pressurizes; it leaves a smear of pink fluid on Starscream’s cheek.

Starscream looks up, vaguely reproachful. Their colors make a pleasing contrast: Tarn’s dark grey, veined in deep purple biolights; Starscream’s mouth painted like a target. Their frames are on different scales, but the magnitude’s no greater than between Starscream and Megatron. Starscream could swallow Tarn’s spike, just barely. Heat shoots through Tarn at the image of Starscream’s lips stretched around it, throat straining.

Starscream leans in and sucks Tarn’s node. 

Tarn’s knees nearly buckle. He groans. Sensitive mesh burns with the residual bunker fuel on Starscream’s tongue, just the right side of painful, and Tarn braces himself on the wall to keep from collapsing. His spike rubs the side of Starscream’s face. Starscream pays it no attention.

Tarn archives that image in long-term internal memory. A seductive little impulse tells him he could start a second collection, one of footage just like this. Starscream’s never been shy. There must be orns upon orns of surveillance video floating around the Decepticon networks, waiting to be found. 

Tarn curls a hand around Starscream’s helm. Starscream tenses like he expects to be crushed to Tarn’s plating, but Tarn isn’t so rude. He pets the graceful seam down Starscream’s cheek, under his jaw, and back again. When Tarn makes no move to steer him, Starscream tilts his head and gives Tarn’s valve the filthiest kiss imaginable.

Tarn’s neural net lights up. His fans roar. His hips jerk but Starscream moves with him, giving Tarn only as much pressure as he allows. When Starscream sucks on Tarn’s valve lips, Tarn curls around him and nearly overloads on the spot. Lubricant slicks Starscream’s mouth. He hums against Tarn’s node. Tarn clenches his teeth to keep from saying something he won’t be able to take back, later.

“How are you so good at this?” Tarn gasps. “There, _yes—_ ”

Starscream’s known for his clever tongue, but Tarn’s never thought of it in this context. He feels he should reciprocate but isn’t sure _how_. He’s not totally inexperienced—he’d had the youthful fumblings of his academy days—but against Starscream he’s lacking. After the academy, no one had wanted to touch a mech with no face or fingers. Later still, when he’d had them back, it’d all seemed… Unimportant. What use was love against the fire of the revolution?

Starscream’s clearly never limited himself. Tarn wishes he _had_ been there in the earliest days, instead of stumbling along feeling sorry for himself. If only he hadn’t wasted the time on making nice with respectable people, the ones who’d recoiled at the brush of his mutilated form. What a picture they could’ve made, the three of them, overseeing Cybertron’s rebirth.

Starscream’s tongue curls deep inside him. It’s a struggle to keep his voice under control. Pleasure builds in waves, his body’s sweet release inescapable as the desire to transform. Tarn shudders with the effort of stillness, of not crushing Starscream to the wall and riding his mouth to completion.

The ridge of Starscream’s helm catches Tarn’s node as his tongue writhes. Tarn overloads with a shout. Starscream keeps moving, all merciless pressure on the edge of _too much_.

Tarn rides it out. His need only burns hotter. He wants more. He wants Starscream completely, in all the ways Megatron ever had him, inside and out. Tarn tugs Starscream backwards and Starscream doesn't fight him. His tongue slips from Tarn’s valve with a last flick over Tarn’s node. Starscream looks up like a golden age courtesan, mouth and chin smeared in Tarn’s fluids. Tarn almost overloads a second time.

Starscream’s jaw flexes. “What, not up to your high-class standards?”

“No.”

Starscream stiffens in affront.

Tarn corrects himself. “That’s not—what I intended to say was, it’s in abysmal form of me to keep enjoying these one-sided arrangements. I’ve been a poor host. I mean to remedy that.”

Tarn crouches. His fingers trace Starscream’s face, his sticky mouth, the line of his major throat cables. He moves on to the pale expanse of Starscream’s wing, with all its delicate hinges and sensor telemetry. Seekers’ wings always surprise him with their resilience. They seem fragile as crystal, but they’re tougher than they look. He digs his thumb into a sensory cluster meant to measure atmospheric composition. Starscream’s fans hitch.

Starscream looks at Tarn like it's a trick. “ _A poor host_. That _is_ a strange way of putting it. Do you climb under all your guests’ plating, Tarn?”

“Only those who are clever, beautiful, and as deadly as they are well-read.”

“How many is that?”

“One.” Tarn’s thumb wipes a black smudge from the corner of Starscream’s mouth. “I’m not much of a poet, myself. Doubtless there’s little I can say that you haven’t heard before, but you _are_ beautiful, Starscream.”

There’s a passage of Megatron’s that’s always stuck with him. In context it describes the inexorable process of the slave rising against the master, but it seems appropriate here. Tarn pulls it up and rereads it to be sure he has it right. In his internal displays, the words burn with all the power Megatron put into them.

_“As dawn, as dusk, as the fall; as light and time, in the gravity well—”_

“Stop,” Starscream rasps.

Tarn stops. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Don’t say things you don’t… Don’t pretend. Don’t make this…”

“ _The future bursts from us, too bright to look upon.”_ Starscream tries to turn his face away. Tarn catches his chin. _“If hardship has tempered us into blades, then let us be blades. They say:_ be what we tell you to be _. Rather: be what you know yourself to be. You are the righteous nemesis. You are what rises from the ashes.”_

Starscream stares. His arm inches up, ferrying the bottle of bunker fuel.

Tarn intercepts it. He takes a mouthful and almost chokes. It _burns_. His hazmat warnings flare more urgently, toxic long-chain chemicals scouring his lines and seeping into the spaces between his teeth. Whether they’ve developed during the bottle’s storage or were there from the beginning, he doesn’t know. When Tarn stops sputtering, Starscream snickers behind his hand.

Starscream was right. Collectible value be damned, it’s the worst thing Tarn’s ever tasted. “That’s _foul_.”

“Poor Tarn, with his refined palate,” Starscream sing-songs, “that wasn’t even the lowest grade on the market. The cheapest stuff was so thick it’d coat your intakes. Getting the taste out of your mouth was impossible, and forget flying on it. It didn’t burn clean enough. I did it _once,_ and I was picking vulcanized tar out of my thrusters for decacycles—”

Tarn shudders, shoves the bottle as far away from himself as he can get it, and kisses Starscream to shut him up.

Starscream makes a soft, surprised sound. He tastes of ozone, interface, and more of that pit-damned bunker fuel. Tarn doesn’t care. Starscream’s mouth is hot and wet but slack; after a klik, Starscream kisses back. It’s oddly tentative. There’s none of the aggression Tarn expected. When Tarn’s teeth graze Starscream’s bottom lip, Starscream’s vents stutter. His fans spin up. He clings to Tarn’s treads like a lifeline.

 

The world spins softly around Starscream. He’s long since stopped being able to make sense of his own system information, and the strobing stripes that are probably warnings are reduced to pretty lights. Bunker fuel, besides getting him cratered, makes him an idiot; its seductive burn turns everything slow and uncomplicated. He’d forgotten. The sludge that lies heavy on the bottom of the distillery barrels burns unpredictably, speeding some pathways and blocking others. Chemical impurities spark in his circuits. It’s poison, but in Starscream’s experience, all good things are.

He can’t feel the mess of his own internals at all.

Which is as good an excuse as any for why he doesn’t pull away when Tarn kisses him. It’s a bad idea, but he’s full of them. He’ll regret it later—but not worrying about _later_ is the whole point.

Tarn kisses him again. If it’s clumsy, it’s earnest. There’s something perversely charming in a mech of Tarn’s age and size not knowing what to do with his mouth. Starscream lets out a sound that'd embarrass him at any other time, rolls his hips into Tarn’s grip, and relishes the rush of pleasure that washes everything away.

Hands that have wrung the life from more people than Starscream can count push his thighs farther apart. Tarn’s fingers settle between Starscream’s legs, and Starscream’s spike pressurizes into his grip. Tarn gives it a pump. Starscream makes a half-glitched sound against Tarn’s mouth. His fans speed. Tarn squeezes the base of his spike, fingertips glossy with his own lubricant. Starscream leans in, loses his balance, and falls against Tarn’s front.

Tarn takes it for enthusiasm. Starscream can’t say he’s wrong.

“Wreck me,” Starscream gasps, against the crook of Tarn’s neck. Tarn shivers all over but keeps being _gentle_. A single finger pushes into Starscream’s valve, thick as three of his own. Starscream clamps down on it as sluggish pleasure radiates. “Come on, h-harder. Make me feel it. Do I… Do I have to tell you more war stories? Megatron was never soft. He always knew what he wanted. One time in Polyhex he didn’t even say anything, just ordered everyone else out of the room and bent me over a table—”

Tarn’s fans click higher. Starscream's sure he has him, but Tarn’s still not pushing. All Starscream has to do is keep talking until Tarn loses control and he’s back on familiar ground. He knows how this goes. He’s danced this dance a hundred million times. Starscream hardly understands the words coming out of his own mouth, but Tarn must; his plating heats.

Tarn grips Starscream by the hips, hoists him into the air and pins him to the wall. Starscream gasps at the impact. His displays bloom white static. When Tarn pushes two thick fingers up Starscream’s valve, Starscream groans and clings to him. The burn edges on pain. He’s hot and slick, dizzy and aching. His fans roar. The bunker fuel makes everything hard to hold on to. Sensation comes too fast to process and his HUD seethes with error messages he hasn’t seen in decavorns. He never wants to think again.

Tarn’s fingers withdraw. Starscream whimpers. His vocalizer glitches halfway through and turns it into a clicking hiss. Tarn grips Starscream’s thighs and the blunt tip of his spike nudges Starscream’s valve.

Tarn seats himself in Starscream with one brutal thrust. It knocks the breath out of him, no finesse, as if Tarn’s never done this before. Maybe he hasn’t. Finding someone who’ll put up with Tarn’s personality defects is a tall order. Starscream moans, pleading in Vosian. It burns in the best way, too much, too fast. His valve clenches. Then Tarn _moves_. All thoughts flee Starscream’s head.

Starscream doesn’t know how he got here. He doesn’t know anything, except that he’s burning from the inside as he clings to the bigger frame that traps him against the wall. Blunt fingers bend his ailerons. Pain mixes with pleasure. He hangs on as another body rocks against his, valve stretched almost beyond bearing, charge crackling under his plating like dry lightning. For a second he’s at the arena in Kaon, then the _Nemesis_ , then a room full of dead frames, statues, and an executioner. None of it feels real. His body runs on autopilot. He’s not sure he exists.

Starscream tucks his face against tank treads, panting. His ventilation system isn't working right. His fans whine. A hand as big as his head fists his spike. Starscream’s cockpit scrapes a broad, flat chest and he lets out a ragged cry. He tries to beg—for what, he doesn’t know—but what comes out is glitchy nonsense: not Vosian, not Neocybex, not language at all.

Starscream drives himself onto that spike as much as he’s able. Every thrust sends blinding pleasure up his backstrut; each aches in his spark chamber in a way it shouldn’t. He nearly sobs. His hips grind downward ruthlessly. The frame wrapped around his slams into him harder. He’s so close, _so close_ —

_“Megatron!”_ Starscream gasps.

Tarn convulses in overload. He drags Starscream down with him, all crackling charge on oversensitized plating as he pumps deep into Starscream’s body. Hot fluid smears his thighs. Starscream shudders as he comes, his mind full of blissful, hissing silence.


End file.
